


To Kill a Nightingale

by JonTheNord



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Assassination, Bandits & Outlaws, Magic, Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-04-16 22:05:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 74,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14174364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonTheNord/pseuds/JonTheNord
Summary: Assassinate the man considered to be the single most powerful crime boss in all Tamriel? Well, it's a job, and it pays—quite handsomely, in fact! For one reckless warrior, that's really all it takes. It's not as if it's her most foolish endeavor yet . . . The most prominent obstacle on her path, then, seems to be one very confused Orc.





	1. Prologue: Blood Moon

_Your life had better have been worth this, Shadya of Da'kheavek!_

J'darzi's talons bit into the cracks between the warm gray stones of the fort's face. He halted his effortless climbing for a second to peer down. The oblivious guards shuffled about the craggy hillside of a courtyard, their eyes firmly at ground level. Doubtless the prospect of an intruder was a distant one.

_This one does not plan to linger for long, either_.

He continued the climb, only to soon once more stop to gaze at the sky. The moons were quite the spectacle tonight. Crimson, both of them, even Secunda. Particularly the larger Masser, already naturally red, was something to behold, looming in the sky like some ornament of a bad dream.

These past couple of days had been uncommonly warm in the province's temperate regions, hot air blowing in from the Southwest, from the direction of Cyrodiil. The air was dry, and dust had been raised with the wind; and after a day spent inside, you could feel it in your eyes and in your throat. Not that he was complaining. Spring had been a long time coming, but now, for no longer than perhaps two weeks, after a long cold winter which had seemed to only reluctantly yield its throne, the temperature had finally settled at a tolerable level. In fact, at best it had in its way reminded him of the cooler days back home in Elsweyr.

J'darzi hated Skyrim. Had learned to hate it over the long years of soul-wrecking cold. He had been here far too long. Even if it had been for a good reason . . .

Dishonor.

It was time to bring an end to it. Exacting vengeance— _justice_ —would see to that.

He grunted up at Masser. _Blood moon. How fitting for this night_.

_No, this one does not rejoice over being the one to do this_ , _yet who is else is as qualified?_ he reflected, reaching the parapet and climbing over it onto the roof. _Forget her, this one said, pretend as if she never existed. Was that not what she did to us?_ But his reasonable arguments had fallen on deaf ears. One of the clan being murdered simply demanded retribution. There was no exception to be made, nor was there any way they could fool the ancestor spirits. As if their anguish could possibly match that of the living. _Ashni-do, she is still most distraught. To see such sorrow on those beautiful features . . . and for what, her traitor of a sister?_

He padded silently across the roof terrace to the doorway at the left. This had not been an easy place to locate, but it had been nothing compared to the difficulty of trying to find out the whereabouts of the man he was looking for. Or, initially, even _who_ he was. But they had finally gotten a name. If you could call it that.

The Nightingale.

What kind of a name was that supposed to be?

In any case, this was the place where the man was skulking these days. In this fort in this hidden valley at the very southern end of Skyrim.

When the sun next rose, that man would be no more.

J'darzi tested the door. Locked. He fished a lockpick out of his satchel and the dagger from his belt, inserted them into the lock mechanism to feel about for the tumbler. The lock wasn't a particularly secure one, and soon clicked open. As little as they were expecting intruders, it seemed they expected them to enter through the roof even less.

He carefully closed the door behind him. He was in. Fort Dawnguard, named after the wiped-out group of vampire hunters which once occupied it, now settled by the worst of criminal scum. Being here did not make him feel happy, not at all. All the more important he did what he came here to do, and did it swiftly.

He noiselessly sneaked across the dusty, barren hallway riddled with cobwebs. It seemed as though this upper level of the fort had long been abandoned. Somewhere ahead, a rat or something similar skittled across the flagstones upon him drawing near. J'darzi felt his hunter's instinct alert at the scent of the creature's fear, and with his senses amplified by both skooma and adrenaline, he could hear the frantic beat of its little heart.

It was enticing, the call of the hunt—no matter for how meager of a prize. But the more commanding, higher layers of his psyche soon drowned out the sentiment.

He was alert. He was ready. There was no failing—

"Stay right where you are."

A flash of lightning seemed to, for a split second, illuminate the whole world, such was the intensity of J'darzi's shock. He stopped dead in his tracks. _What? How is this possible?_

A couple strides ahead of him, taking up the entire hallway and blotting out the moonlight, stood a giant Orc, seeming to have appeared out of nowhere. He wore light hide armor leaving visible a good portion of the bulging, knotted muscles of his torso. His posture was determined yet casual, and he didn't make a move to unsheathe either the battleax on his back or the longsword at his hip.

"Do you see now, Bashnag," came a lightly amused sounding baritone voice from behind J'darzi, "that my premonition was not in vain?"

J'darzi spun. A squat man in expensive-looking clothes stood at more or less equal distance away. The man's dark features, adorned with thinly trimmed whiskers, wore an expression matching the tone of his voice. One of studied nonchalance.

They had been waiting for him! How had he not sensed them?

_Magic!_

Behind him, a low grunt. "Yes, sir."

J'darzi's eyes hardened on the man. _The Nightingale!_

The Nightingale smiled. "Come now, friend. What might bring one such as you to my humble abode this night?"

He sensed no immediate threat from the man. No reason to expect hostility. Yet, he'd no reason to expect their presence, either.

He could hear the footsteps of the Orc unhurriedly drawing near.

He didn't reply, and simply stared at the Nightingale. The man seemed content to study his uninvited guest, that unperturbed simper sitting tight on his countenance.

_This is it, my only chance. He's right there. Now or never!_

He shoved away both the remnants of his earlier shock and the cautious, rational part of himself, and obeyed the screaming voice in his head which might have been his instinct. And he made to pounce on the man he had come here to kill.

But the hands that seized him from behind were most unyielding. As was the stone wall into which the Orc then slammed him.

A bright flash of light, and then the world around him became a dark place.

_Brothers! Sisters! Forgive—_


	2. All in a Day's Work

He looked peaceful now. In his dark eyes behind the half-closed lids the vacant stare at whatever vision comes upon us at our very last moment. There was a serenity to his being that would have seemed completely at odds with his character when still alive. Now it became him, somehow. The tip of his tongue peeking out from between those full lips which had so eagerly pressed on hers during these past few days. On her lips and . . . elsewhere.

But never again. She felt almost regretful thinking about it.

But that's the way it was with Runa Fair-Shield. With her, you got once chance and one chance _only_. You blew it, and she and you were through.

She doffed her iron helmet and ran a hand over her sweaty scalp, the close-cropped stubble of her hair prickly against the skin. She'd still not quite gotten used to the feeling. But when some bastard grabs you by your customary braid and nearly cuts your throat, well—your preferences in style tend to change pretty quick. For the same reason she'd sawed the horns off her helmet. Kind of a stupid way to decorate a helmet to begin with, now that she thought of it.

She shrugged and turned on her heel.

The kid was standing there, looking bewildered, amongst the wreckage of Dwarven machinery. Some fledgling out for adventure whom they'd found wandering about the ruins in his brand new armor, his blade and shield barely dented. Way over his head. This is how she imagined Erik had been, back in the day. They—herself and the now dead Nils at her feet—had taken the young thing along, if only to try to keep him alive.

_Well, just perhaps, for eye candy as well._

He was undeniably cute in his downy, untried way. There was callow naiveté about him, innocence he tried his best to conceal. Had its own charm.

She grinned at him.

"Is he . . .?" the kid said, his eyes on dead Nils.

"No, dear, he's only resting. He'll be back up in no time and we can continue our little fight. Yes, of course he's dead, you big dummy!" At his blinking, she rolled her eyes. "You're welcome for that as well, by the way. Now, don't look at me like that! I'll have you know that he tried to screw us over and take the loot all for himself. Was gonna kill you too." She paused, gave him a significant look. "At least _eventually_."

Runa had invented the last bit just to see what his reaction would be like. Mildly amusing, as it turned out.

She shrugged. "In any case, we got what we—"

The kid took a careless step to the side, placing a foot on a round metal disc embedded in the floor. The disc gave with a click.

This was followed by another sound down the hall. A metallic, rolling sound. Nearing fast.

His eyes wide on her. "I didn't—"

"Look out!"

Her blades in hands, Runa pounced to step in between the young fool and the Dwarven Sphere rolling rapidly at him. It was just unraveling from its balled-up form, the metallic anthropomorph springing out from between the orb's separating halves, the long blade attached to one arm lashing out. She caught the automaton's blade in between her own crossed ones, neatly dodging the bolt which simultaneously flew from its other arm.

Runa Fair-Shield _was_ one to brag, yet when she bragged she was rarely wrong. And when it came to being fast on your feet, she'd yet to encounter anyone who could best her. These mechanical monstrosities might have beaten most folk in speed, but not her.

She swept the machine's sword aside with her left one, then dealt an accurate and decisive blow with the right, landing a good hit at the crossbow on its other arm, incapacitating it. Then she spun to her left and gave the thing's side a hard double-blade swat. The automaton was jolted forwards a bit, then attempted to roll out of harm's way. She did not give it a chance, but dashed after it even before it got properly moving.

Putting all her strength behind her foot, she kicked at the edge of the automaton's spherical base. This spun the thing around, causing it to temporarily lose its control over its movement. She took advantage of its mechanical confusion, and, aiming carefully, jabbed hard at the back of its neck with one blade. The tip of the blade slid in through the narrow seam where its head was attached to its shoulders.

A hissing explosion and a flash of light. A jolt ran through Runa's blade; she felt the tingling even through the leather wrapping around the handle. She drew the blade out, and the automaton collapsed to the ground, juddering and popping as the weird magic that kept it up and running failed. Then it was still, just a pile of faintly smoking scrap metal.

Runa rolled her shoulders and resheathed her swords at her hips. "That takes care of that." She glanced at the kid. He stood there stupidly with his mouth open. Shrugging, she ignored him.

There were bedrolls lying all about the hallway, as this was a fairly popular place for adventurers to come trying their luck, and for lowlifes to hide in. This was further evinced by the corpses that one routinely came across in these places. Wood still in the fireplace, though it was doubtful whether that would do much to warm the place up.

"Well," she said through a yawn. "I guess this place is as good as any for a little shuteye before we start heading back." How many nights had it been since her last good sleep?

The kid was eyeing her all weird.

"What got into you?" she asked.

"You saved my life," he said, sounding puzzled.

"Yeah," Runa said, "I guess I did. How's that make you feel?"

Not anything depictable with words, it seemed.

Smiling, she slowly approached him. "S'alright," she said. "No biggie. Goes with the job."

He said something in very serious tones. He had a rather cute mouth, she realized. Those lips looked soft. She stopped right in front of him, just in time for him to stop talking. He frowned at her silence.

"Well?" he said.

Her smile widened. "Yeah," she said in a dreamy drawl.

And his frown deepened. "Were you even listening?"

Runa shook her head. "No."

He tried to repeat himself. But she then pressed a finger on his lips. They _were_ soft.

"Hush," she said. "Surely it can wait."

The kid's eyes bulged most comically.

Now, Runa knew perfectly well that she had never been the prettiest of faces. But she knew what to do, and how to do it—and, most importantly, _when_ to do it. She knew how to get their attention and particularly how to keep it. She also knew that the strikingly blue eyes, nearly cobalt, which she'd inherited from her mother, were a dangerous weapon when used right. Coincidentally, that was how she always used 'em.

But they were by far not the only part of herself she knew how to use.

She pressed herself against the young man, placing her hands firmly on his back. "See, I just thought of a way you can repay me." And she kissed him deep. And after the initial surprise, he responded to it. Her other hand then slid down his back, down his ass, and over to his crotch. She squeezed his bulge, sought out the outline of his cock. The thing immediately began to harden.

_These pups . . ._

Pulling back, leaving him looking suddenly starved, she studied him. "Tell me, have you ever done it before?"

Something like offence came upon his expression. "Of course I have!"

Runa was only a little bit disappointed. _Then again, who knows . . ._ "That's good," she said, pushing him toward one of the sleeping mats. "Then this should all be familiar to you."

"Wait—" he said.

She did not wait.

* * *

She jolted awake without an idea of how many hours had passed. Then quickly reoriented herself. The ruins, the scattered metal junk, the man still dead— _A bit of a shame that one, still_. And lying beside her the other, younger man. Still very much alive. Warm, emitting his heat onto her own; naked, the fur of his bedroll pulled up to his navel. Asleep and looking every bit like a man content.

_Oh, right. Him. Well, that wasn't half bad!_

She was also naked, but uncovered, yet did not feel particularly cold. It was partly due to her Nord blood, but certainly the moderate layer of fat covering her tautly muscled frame didn't hurt. While her way of life kept her in a plenty good shape, her affinity for food and drink ensured that she'd not be freezing to death for simply forgoing a blanket.

Still, had she lost some weight? _Better get on that once I get back to civilization_.

She regarded the pup and smiled. What experience and skill he might have lacked, he'd certainly compensated with eagerness. That, in general, was the best part of the youngins. That is, if you were lucky.

He was rather skinny still, and looked far more likely to suffer for the chill air in the hallway. She reached out to tug his blanket up all the way. But as she grabbed the blanket's edge, she changed her mind. Her grin quirking, she instead slowly pulled the fur lower. The kid shifted in his sleep, looking slightly uncomfortable. Yet remained asleep.

His member rested against his thigh, still looking slightly engorged. Runa traced her finger along its length a couple times, and it once again began to respond. _Early bird gets the worm._ There was a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

_Well_ , she thought. _Might as well give him a pleasant wakeup_. Grabbing his cock, she eased herself down to close her mouth around it. As she looked up, she saw the smile on his lips widen.

Later, after their little morning exercise, Runa and the kid—Lars, surely? Or possibly Jorg—stood outside on the rickety catwalk which led out from the ruins. _That should be enough sleep for one night_. The sky was already paling, yet the moons still hung in the firmament. They were full and strangely red in color. Something to do with the dustiness of the past few days, Runa thought. As she let her eye linger on the larger Masser, it seemed almost misshapen. More like an egg, actually. _A bloody egg, eh? Surely a good omen_.

Shrugging, she regarded the kid, who still looked a bit frazzled. _Well, he oughta!_ she thought, smirking.

He had paid him his share in gold. She thought that since he'd helped her—albeit minimally—in acquiring the loot, he might as well be afforded a part of that treacherous snake Nils' share. Runa Fair-Shield was nothing if not generous.

_And speaking of generosity._ "Alright," she told the kid. "Guess this is it, then. Go now, and take to heart all that I have taught you tonight!"

"What would that be?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. "If you need to ask, you weren't paying attention."

He suddenly looked uncharacteristically bold with his grin. "Oh, I paid attention alright. I'm sure I learned plenty. Thanks!"

"The pleasure," she said, smiling sagely, "was all mine. Now, skedaddle while you still can."

He tipped a hat he wasn't wearing, and started walking up the winding catwalk with an easy, jaunty step.

Runa looked after him for a while, studying the curve of his behind as he walked. A little more muscle and he'd be just fine. _So long, kid. Try not to get yourself killed. Or worse_.

She then reached under the wide belt of her beat-up leather armor and took out a folded paper, the one which the young messenger Bosmer had brought her just before she'd gotten here. That one had also been cute in his own way. Awkward like a baby bird on its first legs. The sort just begging for the guiding hand of an older woman.

_Ah, what's wrong with me tonight! I just fucked twice and already I'm in the mood for more! Must be the moons. Or the spring, now that it's finally here._

She read the letter again. ' _To Runa Fair-Shield. We have heard word of you as a woman who can get things done. We have things that need doing. Bloody work. If you feel that you might be up the task, please come see this one at Whiterun within the next few days. Work will be dangerous, the payment generous. Yours, Dra'Ajira of clan Da'kheavek'_.

After studying the paper for a while longer, she folded it again and slipped it back under the belt. _Well, at least they got me pegged pretty_ _good_. And they seemed to know what sort of payment she preferred. Generous.

And dangerous work, they say?

_In other words, what's not to like!_

It had been a while since she'd last worked for the Khajiit. What sort of a dangerous job could the cats have in mind? She shrugged. _Well, it's a job like any other. Can't be anything too complicated. Perhaps I'll just head over there next._

But not before a drink or four.


	3. A Job like Any Other

The dungeon was dusty.

Dungeons were pretty much always dusty, and he didn't much care for dust. He didn't much care for dungeons, either. Unfortunate facts, seeing as these days he seemed to spend most his time in them. In dusty dungeons.

Just like this one.

With no one there to hear him, Bashnag let out a long sigh, though it most likely sounded more like a growl. The door closed behind him, he set out to descend the stairs in near pitch darkness. If there was such a thing as _must_ then that was exactly what the place smelled like. Like must.

_Why do I feel like that's how everything smells these days?_

With another sigh-growl, he stopped at the bottom of the stairway to dig out some flint and tinder. He lit the single torch bolted to the wall beside him, then stalked across the room to light another. On his way he glanced at the prisoner shackled to the wall. The feline appeared to be sleeping.

Once there was some light in the dungeon, he stopped to stand by the insensate prisoner. He cleared his throat. The rumbling sound echoed in the barely furnished chamber.

The Khajiit's head popped up. He eyed the dungeon with bleary eyes, as though trying to once more figure out where he was. Then he seemed to remember, the way he slumped. Finally he fixed his gaze of wary hostility on Bashnag in front of him.

Bashnag stepped closer. "I take no pleasure in this," he declared. He then punched the prisoner in the ribs. The prisoner cried out, and sagged with the wind driven out of him. It hadn't been a particularly hard blow, as Bashnag had no intention of killing him. Not yet, anyway.

After some moments, the Khajiit's head rose again.

"Say a number between one and ten," said Bashnag.

The prisoner scowled. "Wh-what?"

Bashnag struck him in the face.

"Say a number," he repeated patiently, "between one and ten." He leaned in, close to the prisoner's ear, and murmured, "I'll give you a hint: aim low."

"Uh." Blood dripping out of the cut on his cheekbone, the prisoner hesitated. As Bashnag moved, about to deal another punch, he hastened to say, "T-two?

Bashnag withdrew the additional blow. He studied the cat. "Huh," he grunted contemplatively. "Woulda said _one_ , myself."

The prisoner's confusion changed to shock as Bashnag reached out to seize one of his paws fettered to the wall beside him. He singled out the index finger.

Khajiit fingers were just the same as every other creature's, underneath all the fur and even with the talons. Just another finger. The same skin, the same cartilage and bone. He bent it back in one swift motion, felt the snap as the bone broke. The Khajiit screamed. An animal cry. In that, also, he was just the same as any other.

"That's one," Bashnag said. He proceeded to take hold of the prisoner's middle finger and repeated the procedure with similar results. "And two. Alright."

The prisoner's screaming soon guttered out and was replaced by a ragged moan verging on a sob. He sagged in his bonds, breathing heavily, as Bashnag walked off.

Bashnag pulled a chair under himself, and sat down to regard the prisoner from a couple strides' distance. As he sat, the chair groaned under his bulk.

He studied the Khajiit: this strange humanoid, bipedal beast-thing in all his magnificent feline grace. This was a body built for a wholly different sort of existence than what reality seemed to be willing to permit the creatures. How would the world be, he reflected, if the likes of the two of them, the limber and dexterous Khajiit and the big sturdy Orsimer, could live free in whatever way they chose; could take and utilize what was supreme and most vital in themselves, to use in service to each other and work together for the betterment of all, instead of spending what limited days and years of life that they had with their hands locked around each other's throats, vying for space and resources, killing each other for reasons they more often than not couldn't have properly explicated, or frankly even understood—fighting this endless, pointless war that seemed to sum up existence. In other words, if the world wasn't ruled by the likes that he'd spent his entire life working for.

But it was. So there was that.

"Well, now," he said, "I take you for softened up. Now we have a little talk. Who sent you?"

The Khajiit painstakingly picked up his head, affording his tormentor his best defiant glare. "Shadya of Da'kheavek."

"And who would that be?"

"A Khajiit. An innocent who was brutally murdered by your boss, the Nightingale."

"Aha," said Bashnag. "So, did then the ghost of this Shadya of . . . — _Da'kheavek_ , was it?—send you to kill the Nightingale?"

The prisoner gave something like a puzzled frown, then hissed. "The dead never truly rest while their unjust deaths go unavenged!"

"So, in other words, you were not in fact sent by her at all?"

The prisoner said nothing.

Bashnag sighed, and rose. The chair groaned, as if to demand he make up his mind about standing or sitting up. He walked up to the prisoner, and once more punched him in the face.

"If I may request," he then growled in a low voice, leaning in closer "please stick to words pertainin' to the immediate reality as it actually stands; in other words, refrain from the use of metaphor, allusion, and the like."

The Khajiit stared at him in confusion. With a pang of shame, Bashnag realized that he had spoken too much. This shame immediately morphed into the most acute irritation, which he then contemplated assuaging by pummeling the cat again. But no, he shouldn't take the misworkings of his own mind out on this poor hapless creature. Instead, he grunted. "Alright."

He ambled back to his seat, and sat his bulk down as the chair protested. "Okay, let's try this again, shall we. Who sent you?"

The prisoner remained silent.

Bashnag grunted.

* * *

Runa belched. The beers she'd downed at Dawnstar had already lost their buzz, but that didn't keep 'em from revisiting from time to time. The aftertaste sure left room for hoping: it seemed as though Windpeak Inn's brew had gotten increasingly worse over the years. That Thoring had always been a standup fella, but perhaps his absent-mindedness had gotten out of hand with age and was now affecting his work. Why the man had ever insisted on serving his own brew instead of just supplying the usual stuff was a whole 'nother question.

Whiterun city poked out of the rocky ground of its surrounding plains like a sore thumb. The tall and narrow shape of Dragonsreach had always worked as a beacon of sorts, helping one to navigate to the city even if a bit more sauced than usual. But the drink wasn't hampering Runa this day. The damn sun, though, could have done with some tuning down the way it beat down on her. And it wasn't even noon yet! Sweat runneled down her temples and made the shirt under her armor stick to her back. The downside of being made to withstand cold seemed to be that she'd never handled heat all that well. One of the main reasons, she told herself, why she'd never set foot outside of Skyrim. Even the alcohol, which she'd often found helped cool her, didn't seem to be working this time 'round.

She stopped at the stables outside of the city and swung off the saddle. Paying the stablehand a small handful of gold, she left her horse, Frost, to be tended to while conducting her business.

The Khajiit camp stood in its usual place by the city's outer gate. As Runa stomped toward the large main yurt consisting of furs piled atop a wooden frame, the head of the male sitting cross-legged on a small mat by the entrance came up.

"Welcome!" the merchant crooned. "How may I—"

"Dra'Ajira," Runa said. "She in there?"

"Ah," he replied. "You must be _her_."

"No, you're mistaken. I'm _me_. _Her_ is the one I'm looking for."

The merchant's furry brows knitted.

"Never mind. Look, is she or is she not—"

"Send her in," said a tattered yet sharp female voice from inside the tent.

The Khajiit motioned with his head. "Step right in."

Nodding and flicking a coin into the lap of the bemused merchant for his trouble, Runa ducked through the entrance.

Inside the yurt it was even more intolerably hot than it was outside, and the smell in there was a minor riot. The saccharine fragrance of skooma mixed with the tang of furs and spices and candles and who knew what. A touch of that vague, sweet natural scent of the cat-people underscored the whole.

A large elk hide had been spread out onto the straw floor, and at one end of it sat a slightly hunched female. Whether it was despite or because of the Khajiit's evident age that she looked all regal-like, Runa wasn't sure—but a single glance at the old cat was enough to convey that she was indeed the one who ran things here.

The elder feline offered her guest a warm smile. "Runa Fair-Shied, this one presumes." She eyed her appraisingly, then gave a nod.

"That one presumes correctly," Runa replied, taking a seat at the other end of the hide without waiting for an invitation.

The Khajiit leader grunted softly, studying Runa. "Your spirit sort of reminds me of someone," she said, and as she did so, her smile took a somewhat melancholy twist.

For a second, Runa fished for a sufficiently clever response, but for lack of one then decided that perhaps, for once, silence was the best option.

"It is with a heavy heart that I welcome here you this morning."

The Khajiit, Runa noted, kept her affable smile on in spite of the undeniable sadness in her voice. Somewhat untrusting of her ability to respond to her words with sufficient reverence, Runa resorted to a mere solemn nod.

"However," Dra'Ajira continued. "This is, of course, no reason to neglect courtesy."

As she spoke, another figure ducked into the tent. A female, that one as well, carrying with her a hookah.

"We appreciate you coming to us on such short notice," said Dra'Ajira. "I know that you are a busy woman, so this greatly honors us. Perhaps, before we begin the negotiations, you would like some skooma?"

"Thanks," Runa replied as the younger female laid the hookah beside her, "but no thanks. It is still early, and I like to keep a clear head . . . Say, is that ale?"

Dra'Ajira followed Runa's gaze to the bottles sitting in a crate in the far corner. "Ah, yes. Yet this one is afraid that it's quite warm."

"That's alright," Runa said. "Don't bother me none."

"Ashni-do," the old female said to the younger one. "Would you mind?"

Without a word, the other one, Ashni-do, went over to retrieve a bottle and then bring it into Runa's waiting hand.

"Appreciate it," Runa said, grinning at the Khajiit.

Ashni-do replied with a brief and tight, cordial smile, then went to take a seat next to her leader.

Dra'Ajira looked about. "Now, there should be a cup somewhere around—"

"Never mind that," Runa said. She took the stopper between her teeth, pulled it out with a pop and spat it over to the side, then took a big swig from the bottle.

"So far," said Dra'Ajira, "This one feels that what they say about you is indeed all true. This is encouraging."

"Yeah?" Runa released excessive air from her stomach with a low rumble, then blew it out from between puffed cheeks, simultaneously suppressing a smirk of amusement; she'd always found the way the Khajiit spoke funny. "Well, my reputation always did precede me. One day, though, I mean to catch that bastard and show 'er what for."

_See that perplexity on their faces, which the old one at least is trying to conceal. That there is your_ humor _going over like charm._

_Well, not everyone appreciates banter._

_Don't you mean_ blather _?_

_Ah, shut it, will ya._

"But I suppose reputation is something you folk know all about, huh?" Runa almost grimaced right after she'd let that particular toad leap out of her mouth. _Heh, what a silly idiom that is. A toad . . . Leave it for the Nords to come up with something like that._

Ashni-do scowled. "Do you find that amusing somehow?"

_Dang_. Runa realized that she'd let her impassive mask crack with that latter thought.

" _Shatter to pieces" would again be more accurate._

_Thought I told you to shut it._

Dra'Ajira raised a placating paw at the younger female.

"Uh," Runa said. "No, you, um, misunderstand me. A, uh, wayward thought came to me. Something funny that happened to me recently."

This _is actually kind of funny, come to think of it._

"That's alright," said Dra'Ajira patiently. "And as to your question: yes, this is something we know very well."

"Well I ain't ever had trouble with you people," Runa rushed to reply. _You people?_ "Uh, I mean. . ." _Ah, shit on it!_ She took another—long—swig from the bottle. Once she was done with it, she decided, she'd pretend she never said anything.

The bottle gave a hollow ring as she drained the last drops.

"You are thirsty," Dra'Ajira observed. "Would you like another one?"

"If that won't strain your stock overmuch, sure. Thanks."

"Not at all."

Without separate prompting, Ashni-do sprang up and, perhaps a bit petulantly, retrieved another bottle. As she handed it to Runa, she barely deigned to give her a single glance.

The Nord, on the other hand, gave the feline a good surreptitious study while unstoppering the second ale. There was certain undeniably alluring grace to their race, particularly the females. The way those hips—which would have been the envy of any human female—swung as Ashni-do walked—practically prowled—was as good as an invitation, while the raw wildness of her bestial being served as a clear warning to keep your distance. Made Runa acutely aware of the fact that she had, in fact, never once bedded one of the creatures. Seemed the most woeful oversight right now. She wondered how it would be.

_Pretty much have find out now, don't I_.

Ashni-do sat down and noticed Runa's scrutiny, replying to her grin with an unmistakable glower.

_Comes with a temper too, I see. Never could resist that. Hmm, how do those tongues feel—?_

"So, Miss Fair-Shield—" Dra'Ajira begun.

"Please," Runa cut in, bringing her focus back. "Call me Runa."

"Alright. Runa. As pleasant as it is to have you with us this day, the meeting, unfortunately, has a grimmer purpose behind it . . . as I wrote."

"Aye," Runa replied slowly, unable to shake the feeling that the old cat's heart had not quite fully been behind the first part of the sentence. She shrugged. "Those, generally, are the sorts of meetings I have with folks. Those," she tried another smile directed at Ashni-do, "and, on occasion, some more pleasant ones."

_Careful. She looks_ that _close to scratching._

_Promises, promises_. . .

"Yes," said Dra'Ajira. "I am sure that you, like us, are quite familiar with the underbelly of Tamriel."

_Underbelly, eh?_ Feeling some devil tickling inside her, Runa grinned even wider at Ashni-do. "Aye. Quite. Some of 'em, leastways."

The younger Khajiit hissed, turning to the elder. " _T'har_ ," she said. "Can we please dispense with the pleasantries and get to the heart of the matter."

Without looking at her brethren, Dra'Ajira gave Runa a longsuffering smile. "The youth," she said. "They are all urgency. Beg do not take offence from Ashni-do, she has a good reason for her lack of tact. This is even more painful for her than the rest of us."

"That's alright," Runa said. "Tell you the truth, I'm rather happy cutting straight to the chase myself."

"Very well." Dra'Ajira nodded. "First, however, let this one briefly describe the history of our business today."

"Must we?" asked Ashni-do.

_Yeah, I'm with her._

"I'm afraid so," Dra'Ajira said gravely. "Yet let us keep to the essentials. You see," she told Runa, "the wound is still fresh."

Runa let a nod suffice as a response, mistrusting her mouth.

"This one shan't tire you with detail, but there was one individual of our clan who did not feel satisfied with our ways. It should be pointed out that this is by no means unheard of in the Khajiit society, but it is nonetheless always unfortunate. Be that as it may, this individual, like so regrettably many, felt the call of the life of crime instead; thus participating, in her way, in keeping up the lamentably persistent negative ideas that others have of our race."

Runa nodded, only half worried that it could be construed as a tacit admission of herself holding such ideas.

"Yet we never gave up hope that one day Shadya would see the error of her ways and return to us."

"How very forbearing of you," Runa observed.

"Yes." Dra'Ajira's smile was a sorrowful one. "Well, perhaps, had she not been the blood-sister of Ashni-do here, we would have been slightly less patient."

The younger female shunned Runa's gaze.

"But blood, as they say, is thicker than water. So we yet held hope."

Runa hesitated for a few heartbeats, then said, "But I gather that, in the end, such hope turned out to be futile."

Ashni'-do's eyes swung to Runa, and there was a flame in them. Now it was the Nord's turn to ignore it.

"Yes," Dra'Ajira acceded. "Time, sadly, was not on our side."

"When is it ever?"

"Alkosh, alas, rarely aligns his plans according to the wishes of us mortals."

"That's one way of putting it."

Dra'Ajira studied Runa for a few moments, then heaved out a breath. "Yes, well, be that as it may, Shadya's destiny was determined by her own choices at least as much as the will of any god. For it would seem that it was during one of her unlawful endeavors that she had her fateful brush-in with Sangiin."

_Lady, could you please stop talking in riddles?_ "And do you know who killed her, then?" Runa said, with more impatience than she had intended to convey.

Dra'Ajira paused. Then said, "Yes."

_Well, don't keep me in suspense!_

"However," Dra'Ajira said, causing Runa to groan inside. "This was not an easy task for us to find out."

" _Fado_ —" Ashni-do said, but was waved silent by the elder.

Runa raised an eyebrow at the word.

"No," said Dra'Ajira. "She needs to understand."

"Understand what?" asked Runa.

Another stretch of silence, then, "Despite everything, in her heart, Shadya was . . . an innocent."

_What's that_ _got to do with anything_ , Runa thought. _Besides, who's ever innocent? And what's innocence anyhow?_ Out loud, she said, "I see."

"And that, I believe, is what proved to be her downfall. For all her mistrustfulness she could still be far too naïve."

"So she was betrayed?"

"We thought so at first. There was a . . . man whom she was last seen with. But it turned out that it was more complicated than that. This man got her into contact with the wrong people, and then, it would seem, they were both killed."

"Ah." _Well, if that isn't a song I've heard countless times before_.

"Yes. Now, these wrong people . . . and in particular the person in charge, by whose hand it more than likely was that Shadya met her death. . ."

"Is the one you need killed."

Dra'Ajira nodded. "Aye."

"And who, then, are we talking about here?"

The Khajiit smiled at the question, seeming apprehensive somehow.

_Why do I get the feeling she's about to say something I'm not gonna be too happy to hear?_

"Shall I tell her?" asked Ashni-do.

Dra'Ajira replied with a staying hand. "This one told you that the work would be dangerous, and that was no understatement. Now, there was also mention of a generous reward, which, incidentally, was no exaggeration either. Would you perhaps like to hear about that first?"

_Errrr_ _. . ._ Runa shrugged. "Sure, why not."

"It turns out that Shadya had been amassing rewards from her works. We were approached by the owner of a local Inn, and she told us that she'd been keeping Shadya's gold for her. Furthermore, apparently the latest, eh, customer who had commissioned the work during which Shadya was killed had supposedly felt some kind of guilt over the whole thing, and had magnanimously agreed to donate the full sum which he'd had paid for a successful job, given that the gold would be paid as compensation to her family. A considerable amount. . ."

"Well," said Runa. "Let no one say that chivalry is dead." _That Innkeep she mentioned must be Ysolda. She always was the soft-hearted sort. For a drug dealer, at least._

"Indeed," Dra'Ajira said. "Anyway, altogether we are talking about not a trifling amount of money. And so we agreed, once we had ascertained the personality of the killer, to get that money together to use it to hire an external party to act as the _hand of justice_ if you will. Before we knew the personality of the person, we considered the Dark Brotherhood, but have since learned the impossibility of that."

She paused, seeming to weigh out her words. "Now, understand that this was not a decision made lightly. Since time immemorial the Khajiit have dealt with their own blood feuds. But times are complicated, and the stakes too great for us to take this quest for justice into our own hands. Besides, we fear the adversary is beyond any of us." She sighed. "Unfortunately, not all of us agreed on this. Particularly one of us railed against the decision. We allowed him to keep his own opinion, but perhaps we underestimated his temperament." She sighed another time, deeper this time.

"What happened?"

"Apparently J'darzi decided that since we're not going to change our mind to his way of thinking, he has to take it upon himself to extract justice."

Ashni-do hissed. "Fool!"

"Yes. And so he went on his own to find this man. And, we fear, he also found him. J'darzi has not been gone for longer than couple days, but . . . well, let us just say that this one needs no confirmation of him having gotten himself into big trouble."

"Killed?" asked Runa.

Dra'Ajira shook her head. "It cannot be said for certain, but it is my belief that he yet lives. Call it . . . hope."

_Hope. Now_ there's _another dead end!_ "Sure," Runa said with a nod.

"In any case," Dra'Ajira exhaled, "this, I believe, lends our cause even more urgency."

"Certainly."

"And so, the question is . . . will you help us?"

Slowly, Runa smiled, feeling an ominous stirring in the pit of her stomach. And it wasn't the ale. "And who, then, is the lucky fella?"

"Alright," said Dra'Ajira with another exhale. Then paused.

_Go on, dear._

"Now, I know how this will sound."

_Out with it already!_

"The man we want you to kill . . ."

_Damn you, furball, you're doing this on purpose!_

". . . is the man known as the Nightingale."

Runa stared. _Huh?_

In the following silence, Dra'Ajira gave a shaky smile. "So there it is." Beside her, Ashni-do studied Runa with half-lidded eyes.

_You've been smoking something else besides skooma, you mad old lynx! You don't really expect anyone to be so utterly foolish as to even for a second consider your insane proposal!_

"Aye," Runa said. "I'm intrigued."

_What?!_

Dra'Ajira looked a bit surprised at the response, and Ashni-do's eyes narrowed even further.

"Of course," Runa studied her nails—dirty and chipped as usual, "this considerable amount of money will have to be rather considerable. As you well understand."

"A hundred thousand gold."

If Runa hadn't just swallowed the last swig of her ale, chances were she would've had a difficult time keeping from spitting it all over the two Khajiit. _Now, that is not a piddling sum, I gotta hand it to you_.

"Could you please repeat that?" she said composedly.

Dra'Ajira smiled. "A hundred thousand gold. In Septims."

_That's a lot of Septims_.

As a practical woman who only ever lived from one adventure to the next, Runa had never thought about being rich. What would she do? She could buy a manor, or have one built. Start a business like her mother and become even richer. Not that she'd ever dreamed of ending up like the old lady. Of course, being hunted by the entire underworld for the rest of her life would doubtfully make for a good backdrop for enjoying her wealth… She would have to find a way to do this so that no one would ever know.

_You're actually considering this?! This is insane! You have finally lost it! There's no way—NO WAY—this is going to happen! There absolutely has to be a limit to the extent you're willing to go to try—_

Runa nodded. "We've got ourselves a deal."

_The hell we do! Little good that coin will do you in the Void!_

_Hmmm, now, now. It ain't written in no stone that this can't be done._

_Oh no, don't you start—_

_Everyone shut up!_

Dra'Ajira, once again, seemed taken aback by Runa's response. What, she hadn't actually expected to get a positive answer?

_Can you blame her? You don't_ look _unhinged. . ._

_Look who's talking._

As so often at times like these, faced with perplexity, it was as though Runa were once again a little girl of six: lying in her bed, pretending that her own little hands were two, sometimes more, persons having an argument. She'd always found it easiest to treat all the incongruent impulses of her mind as if they were each a separate entity. After all, who could say that they weren't?

An abrupt memory of having conversations with her rag doll, Molla.

One which she just as soon pushed away.

"Well?" she said. _Cat got your tongue?_ she almost added, but thought better of it.

"Yes," replied Dra'Ajira. "This one begs your pardon. Admittedly it's a bit surprising, your response."

_Aha, I knew it_! Runa shrugged. "Well, I'm no Dark Brotherhood. You'll need no magical ritual to get me to do your bidding. In fact the only ritual you'll need is the one where you take a bit of your gold and transmutate it into _my_ gold. The bigger the bit the better."

Dra'Ajira smiled. "As you say."

Ashni-do had gone on to light the hookah, and was puffing the sweet-smelling skooma smoke into the air between them, still studying Runa from behind the smoke screen.

_See, she likes you already._

Dra'Ajira shifted, seeming to hesitate. "Just out of curiosity," she then said, "how are you planning to pull this off?"

_Lady, I haven't a fucking clue!_ Runa gave a shrewd smile. "I'll find a way."

_Yeah, a way to get yourself slowly chopped to bits—certainly!_

The Khajiit nodded. "Aye. Believe it or not, when you say it with such conviction, this one has no choice but to believe you."

_Then you're an even bigger fool than the one you're looking at!_

_Enough of that!_

"You've contacted the right person," Runa said, "I can tell you that much. Most would run away scared when faced with what you've thrown at me this day." _As they well_ _shou_ _—_ " _However_ , I ain't gonna lie to you." _That's what you're doing right now, you_ — " _Not gonna lie to you_ ," she repeated emphatically.

Both of the Khajiit frowned.

"Uh, anyway." Runa cleared her throat. "A walk in the park this ain't. And, yes, there's a chance—no matter how slight—that I will fail you. We're talking a very well connected person here! Not someone you simply waltz up to and casually slit his throat. And it may take a while for me to figure this out."

"We understand this," said Dra'Ajira.

Runa glanced sidelong at Ashni-do. The feline was still regarding her with something not quite mistrust yet not far from it either. "But it ain't for nothin' that they call Runa Fair-Shield 'the queen of cunning'."

_No one calls you that!_

Ashni-do rolled her eyes, but Runa contained her own frown. "So, if anyone, I will be able to pull this off."

"You have our deepest gratitude," Dra'Ajira said with a slight inclining of her head.

Runa grinned. "S'long as your _gratitude_ gleams and jingles and weighs like my sins, then we're good in my book."

Dra'Ajira returned the smile. "As you say."

Their eyes remained locked onto each other for a nearly dozen heartbeats, and Runa was beginning to wonder whether the old Khajiit was trying to stare her down, to find a crack in her mask. _Well, let 'er try!_

"Very well," Dra'Ajira finally exhaled, surrendering her gaze, and stood up with surprising grace. "We shall not keep you for longer."

_Aw, does that mean that I actually have to go and figure this out?_

Runa sprang up in turn. "I was already itching to get to it!"

"Yes," Dra'Ajira said with an appreciative look. "You truly seem to live up to your reputation."

"Damn straight," Runa replied.

Ashni-do was looking slightly less convinced, but Runa elected to ignore her.

Dra'Ajira then offered her paw for her to seize. A pleasantly furry texture. "We wish you the best of luck on this dangerous journey! May the ever-fickle Sangiin guide your steps."

_I believe his more typical incarnation, Sanguine, is more up my alley, but I'll take 'em where I can get 'em . . ._ "He'd better take care if he intends to keep up with my stride!"

Dra'Ajira's smile was a tad uncertain. "As you say."

_What she means by that, by the way, is "whatever, you loon."_

Runa shook hands with Ashni-do as well. Although a tall woman, she found herself looking up at the cat. And it bugged her that she could not read her expression. "Perhaps, when this is done, we can have that skooma."

Although her words were directed at the younger one, Dra'Ajira was the one to reply. "Indeed. At that day, we shall have a celebration. This, I believe, is what Shadya would have wanted."

Wresting her hand free from Runa's, Ashni-do flashed the elder a less than pleased look, but kept her silence.

"Aye," Runa mused, her eyes still on the moody Khajiit. "While I never met her, sounds like she was my kinda gal."

* * *

Slowly shaking his head and sighing, Bashnag climbed the stairs out of the dungeon. The sheer futility! There were days—entire weeks—when it grew very near impossible to tolerate.

Why did it always come down to this? These hopeless, useless fights against the inevitable, he should well be inured to them. Then why did they still always leave one with such an . . . _ache_?

_It's because you are weak! Your always were and always will be. That is why your father was ashamed of you; why your brother hated you_.

As usual, his inner detractor spoke in the voice of Malacath. This had ever been the case, but it seemed as though it had grown worse these past few years. Probably his conscience talking. Although, truth be told, for a conscience it sure did speak dark things. But then that probably fit well enough, given the life he'd lived.

He muttered, "I am not weak."

_Your mouth speaks the words. But does your heart burn with them?_

His heart was burning, alright—had been for a while now. But with what . . . well, that was more complicated.

In any case, what he had he knew wasn't weakness. He would never have uttered it out loud, but there were things in the mortal soul that his kind had for ages disregarded at their peril. In the yoke of the ever-austere god of the ostracized, they had forgotten a lot about what actually make life in this world worth living. Sentient beings, as a rule, remained blind to virtues that they themselves did not possess; and when it came to the Orsimer, they simply could not comprehend the virtue of retaining one's purity—the refusal to become fully tarnished by the taint of the world. And thus, perhaps worse than any other race, they had come to epitomize it.

_Just be glad that such treacherous words remain trapped inside of your skull! Your kin would not be content to simply have you as an outcast, could they hear them._

"I'm not an outcast," he muttered. Unable to fully convince even himself.

The fort, as usual, seemed deserted. Earlier, he'd heard some footsteps and voices somewhere down the hallways, but those were now gone as he walked across the large circular main foyer. The place honestly seemed a bit overblown to mainly serve as the Nightingale's personal haunt, but as of now it did not seem to be serving a greater purpose in his operation. And so these vast hallways mainly echoed emptiness.

Soon, however, Bashnag came across another soul. And a truly lost one at that.

"Aah! And here is _Bashnag_." The way Dexion Evicus always pronounced his name gave the Orsimer the strangest feeling. In the mouth of the crazed former Moth Priest the name had the ring of an unconsecrated oath in some long-forgotten language.

The tatty-robed ex-priest seemed to study him through the dirty rag covering his eyes. "Evening, my big, silent friend," he said. "Tell me, does the sun still shine in the sky?" He chuckled. "Aye. For now . . . for now." Another cackle, and then he ambled off.

Bashnag sourly stared after the madman. Why the Nightingale kept him around was an utter mystery to him.

Grunting, he turned on his heel and continued to the stairway in the east wing. He climbed the stairs to arrive at the closed door of the Nightingale's personal chambers. The man was possibly having someone over for a meeting, as Bashnag though he could hear strange voices through the heavy wood. He hesitated mid-knock, fist perched in the air.

"Come in, Bashnag."

Bashnag grunted. Then he opened the door to poke his head in. To his surprise, there appeared to be no one in the sparsely furnished room other than the Nightingale himself. He was sitting down, supping, at the end of the long table otherwise surrounded by empty seats. The thin-whiskered Imperial, dressed simply but expensively in all black, looked up from his plate and offered a courteous smile.

"Glad to see you old friend," the Nightingale said. "Why, is something the matter?"

"Sir, I thought I heard voices."

The man's eyes scanned the empty seats around the table. "No," he said, "I'm here by myself."

"I see."

"And have you met with our guest as I suggested? Did you have a fruitful heart-to-heart?"

"It is as I surmised, sir," Bashnag said. "He ain't talkin'."

" _Surmised_ ," the Nightingale mused. Then chuckled low in his throat. "Well, no matter. I wouldn't worry overmuch: we shall find out sooner or later."

"Aye, sir. As you say."

The Nightingale studied his bodyguard. "Take the remainder of the day off, Bashnag. Get some rest. Take a nap or something. Or, alternatively, retire early tonight. Whatever you do, get some sleep. You don't look so good." He set his utensils down and sipped his wine. Candlelight from the above chandelier shone on his jet-black hair just long enough to slick back. "On the morrow we have much business to conduct, places to go. We'll talk more come morning, yeah?"

A moment of silence. "Aye, sir."

"And Bashnag."

Bashnag stopped in the door crack. "Yes, sir?"

"I mean it. Don't worry about the cat."

Pause. "No sir. I won't."

"Splendid. Very well, then: goodnight."

"Er, yes, sir."

Pressing the door closed felt like a relief.

* * *

_A cuckoo has laid its eggs in your nest, that's for sure!_

A tempest was brewing inside of Runa as she strolled out of the Khajiit yurt and toward the stables. Despite the warm air, she felt cold to her skin and right down to the bone. You couldn't have told it from her studied confident smirk and swagger, but a profound numbness had stolen over her.

_Yeah, can't deny feeling just an itty bitty bit frazzled about all this._

That was as ruthless of an admission she was able to conjure, even to herself.

_What the hell am I gonna do! How am I supposed to lay waste to the most prominent criminal mastermind in the whole Empire? Or that, at least, is what they call him. Could_ _be it's_ _all bluster: smoke and mirrors. Maybe he's not all that in the end._

_Like someone else we know. . ._

She gave her head a firm shake, stopping to stand in front of the stables with her legs defiantly apart and her fists pressed, just a tad too tightly, against her hips. It would not do! She'd get ahold of herself, and then she'd figure this thing out! After all, is was not in vain that they called Runa Fair-Shield the . . . the. . .

The what?

_The most bloviated sack of—_

Runa hawked and spat, just missing the shoes of a bemused-looking citizen walking past. "Sorry," she muttered. Then she set her jaw, lifted her gaze on the city. For a second, she considered paying Bannered Mare a visit, then decided against it. No use complicating matters any further. After all, it wasn't likely there was anything valuable that she could learn from Ysolda. Probably better if the woman remained ignorant of the identity of the person foolish . . . er, _courageous_ enough to take this impossible . . . nay, _challenging_ job.

Ysolda was old friends with Ma, and back in the day she had given the old lady a boost in her becoming a merchant. Though the latter had greatly surpassed the former in wealth since then. In any case, Runa and the woman were familiar enough to make it awkward.

She sighed, then set out to collect Frost.

As used as she was to getting things done on her own, it looked as though it would not be so this time 'round. She'd definitely need some consultation, and perhaps even some help.

_Better head out to the Rift._


	4. Consultation of Good Companions

"To the fallen!"

Three foam-topped pewter tankards clanked together, spilling their froth onto each other, onto the hands gripping them, and onto the already sticky, beaten up tabletop underneath.

Taking hers to her lips, Runa drank deep. A wave of satisfaction. "Aah. The good stuff!"

The Bee and the Barb served precisely the same swill of an ale as did most of the other inns of the province, but somehow over here it always tasted the best. Like adventure. Like a good hard fuck after an adventure!

They were seated at their usual table at the side of the bar, where they could see everything that was happening if they needed to. Where no one could sneak up on them. Not that such a thing ever happened, but in their line of work and with their reputation, there wasn't such a thing as being too careful. Loredas evening saw the place packed full, the clientele at this time consisting solely of faces of varying ugliness and more or less equivalently scarred, the more gentile folk having departed to give room for the less civilized. Ones such as Runa and these two gentlemen she was drinking with.

The strawberry blond-haired one to her left leaned back with an ironic smirk on his lips. "Indeed. And speaking of the good stuff: you'll never guess who I ran into the other night!"

"I won't, Rusty. Though I have the distinct feeling that you're about to tell us."

The man barely winced. He'd grown sufficiently resigned to the nickname over these past few years. He sighed, and then the smirk was back. "Well, none other than Stanvar Son of Erik."

"Oooh," replied Runa. "The old horse-cock is back to Skyrim, is he?"

"Nah. Just popped in. Went back to Daggerfall already."

_Popped in, eh?_ "Well, a night with you will do that. So, I assume you two. . ."

Rusty grinned with his big teeth. "Did we ever!"

"Figures. So . . . you're sitting alright?"

"I'm managing."

Snorting, Runa raised her mug. "I'll drink to that."

Rusty in turn sipped his ale, then set the tankard on the table. He ran a hand over his curly hair in a practiced-looking manner. The otherwise half-long hair was trimmed short right above the ears, with a pair of thin braids at the top. Must have been what was fashionable in the Imperial City that month. "I wonder, though." With a sly look on his face, he tapped his meaty lips with one finger. His _pecker-suckling lips_ , as Runa had dubbed them. And he'd never once bothered trying to deny it.

"You wonder what?"

He aimed his smirk at the man sitting opposite to him. "Just, if Hroar here were to get some action from time to time, I wonder if he'd show us more of that radiant smiled of his."

Hroar frowned, but did not bother with a reply. This was not the sort of conversation that made the man comfortable. And so she and Rusty tried to make sure to have one as frequently as possible.

"Oh, come now," said Runa. "I don't think _getting_ is his problem. If only he didn't keep pushing the lasses away, why, he'd practically be _swimming_ in action. I mean, look at 'im. A man's man if ever there was one! Hroar the _Lion_!" She growled the last word, grabbing hold of the man's brawny arm.

Hroar winced. "You know how I hate it when you call me that."

"And you know that's precisely why it gives me such joy to do so."

The hated sobriquet, as so often, had originated with Runa. Initially, years and years ago, she'd taken to calling him "Hroar-Like-a-Lion", based on the way he always used to introduce himself. As usual, what had started as a joke had more or less stuck, if in a slightly altered from. And ever since then the man had fought a hopeless war against people calling him that. Much to Runa's satisfaction.

You couldn't deny it though: as far as appearances went, he had it going. Tall and strong-looking with a sensitively serious disposition which did not hurt, either, to make those heads turn his way. His face, framed by long locks of curly, blond hair—his mane— wasn't ugly either, managing to mix soft sensitivity with hard, masculine lines in a way that didn't exactly sting the eyes. His deep green eyes finished the deal.

Not that Runa could in a million years have thought of him in that way. Any more than she could have a brother.

She had, on the other hand, slipped under the blankets with Rusty a couple times, but those times had usually seen them heavily intoxicated, and afterwards more than a bit awkward. They'd done their best to joke about it, but both of them had been a little bit inconvenienced by such blurring of lines. The warrior types were nothing if not pragmatic about such things, but some comradeships were just too, well, _comradely_.

"Seems to me," Rusty said, "that ever since that thing with Mjoll, he hasn't been quite the same."

Hroar's eyes flashed in a manner very familiar to Runa. "I wouldn't go there," she murmured in a singsong voice.

But Rusty wasn't one for taking hints. "How many years has she been gone now? Don't you think it's about time to get over it, my friend? I could readily point you to some lovely young ladies—or old ladies, knowing you—to help you with forgetting."

Hroar inclined over the table. "If you know what's good for you, _friend_ , you'll be shutting that big mouth of yours right now."

Rusty's grin never waned, but the ensuing silence threatened to grow just a tad bit too tense for Runa's liking. She elected to lighten it with a belch. "You've gotta admit," she said. "It is rather large. Your mouth, that is."

Rusty shrugged. "It has its uses."

She snorted. "I'll drink to that."

"You'll drink to anything," he noted.

"Can't argue with you there."

Runa studied Rusty out of the corner of her eye. The man looked satisfied with himself, but then not really any more than usual. He leaned back in his chair and daintily sipped his drink as was his wont.

Among all the warrior kind, there was no one quite like ol' Rusty. To go with the almost prissy manner in which he conducted himself, his appearance was another thing to make him stand out. The sapphire-and-gold malachite armor shining as spotless as usual, as though he spent every spare minute with no one looking polishing it. Runa would not have put it past him. The rest of him was also oddly immaculate considering his way of life, and compared with his peers. His countenance, for example, bore almost no scars or dents. For comparison, you'd have to look no further than to the ones he was currently drinking with. Runa's own mug resembled that of Hroar's: scars of varying size, some more faded than others, crisscrossing here and there, with noses misshapen enough to make it obvious they'd been broken more than once.

She drained her tankard and briefly studied her dull reflection in its side; the broad face with all the scars and the battered nose, dappled with freckles from the sunlight, the first gathering wrinkles from the stress of her lifestyle and the fact that she indeed wasn't a spring chicken anymore . . . No, a staggering beauty she wasn't. But damned if that kept 'em away!

She slammed the empty thing onto the table, motioning over to the innkeep for another round, which the Argonian carried over promptly. Runa would have bet that the bulk of the inn's income rested on the thirsty shoulders of the trio.

Rusty was not yet done with his, so he waved the innkeep off. And neither did he appear to be done with Hroar. Giving his head a rueful shake, he mused, "The lion and the lioness . . . the sheer poetry of it! It truly was a shame. Nonetheless, there comes a time a man must pick up the pieces and move on."

As the other man looked about ready to leap over the table, Runa cut in. "He does have a point, you know. It's not as though you wouldn't have had plenty of chances for moving on. Host of candidates to help you out—free of charge even! Nuh-uh-uh, I'm talking here!" She burped, after a hearty draught from her mug. "Look, what I'm saying—" She burped again, some ale coming back up with this one.

"Egad, Runa, don't puke!" Rusty said.

"What I'm saying, Hroar, is that you've always been an incredible prude for a warrior. In fact, you're a cause of great shame to all of us."

Hroar snorted. " _Shame_. As if you even knew what that feels like. Besides, I believe the rest of you are keeping it up just fine for all of us."

Runa slanted Rusty a look. "Well, _some of us_ have a more difficult time than others in _keeping it up_."

"Hey, that was only once!"

"Twice."

"On—" He looked up, thinking. "Alright, twice. But both of those times you'd made me take skooma. I tell you, that stuff simply does not agree with me."

"You can say that again."

"That stuff simply does not—"

"Oh, be quiet." She switched back to Hroar. "Anyway, get fucked is all I'm saying. Is it really too much to ask?"

Rusty giggled. "Oh, indeed!"

Hroar scowled at him. "Shut up, you."

The other man inclined over the table, smiling evocatively. "Why don't you make me?"

Hroar bared his teeth. "I'm tempted to."

"Boys, boys," Runa said. "I know you're trying to impress me and all, but it ain't working."

Hroar was glaring at Rusty, who blew him a kiss in return.

Behind Runa's back, a heated argument pertaining to Divines knew what had steadily escalated into a downright shouting match, and now growled voices reached their apex and, heralded by curses, chairs scraped against the floor, and it was time to take the argument outside. No one around acted the least bit shocked, as this was the sort of scene that usually played itself out on most evenings, often more than once or twice. The pair then showed themselves outside without further disorder or disturbance to others, as was the time-tested manner of settling differences, and everyone else went on as usual.

Soon, once the argument was settled, they'd be returning fast friends again, arms draped over each other's shoulders. Or in some cases, if the agreement reached was _really_ satisfactory, hands down each other's breeches. Though occasionally it did happen that only one of them returned, but that was more the exception than the rule. Largely hot-headed though the warrior kind might have been, they weren't utterly without a sense of proportion.

Runa smirked at the display, having discerned the whole affair to the last detail without even having to bother looking over her shoulder.

"Anyway," said Rusty, turning his at best mildly interested eyes away from the commotion, and angling his insufferable sneer at her. "All this talk of old times reminds me of something I keep forgetting to ask. Whatever happened to that girl you once brought here?"

"What girl?"

"You know, that slight, scared-looking one. You were sitting at this very table with her. Some couple years back or something—as I recall, you had just disposed of Grushnag gro-Ghasharzol."

Ah. Right. The scholar. Runa hadn't thought about her for a while. _Wonder how the little slip of a girl is doing? Still in Skyrim, holed up at the College?_ _Perhaps I should pay her a visit one of these days_. She'd been meaning to, for a long time, but somehow hadn't gotten around to it.

"Haven't heard of her since," she said.

"Guess that's what one night with _you_ will—"

"Whoa, there!" Runa said. "It was strictly business with her."

Well, in the most liberal sense of the word. After she'd rescued the whelp from the host of bandits run by Grushnag, she'd ended up helping her acquiring some useless book from a band of Foresworn. Indeed, from the King in Rags himself! That had been a fun enough adventure, but an entirely unprofitable one. Runa had even gone out of her way to get her mother to lend the girl some bodyguards to tend to her at the College, since it seemed that a well-known and highly connected human trafficker had been behind her initial abduction. Seemed there might have been some foul play going on, though why that was, she couldn't possibly tell. Didn't seem like a particularly important person, that Ariela, but then who knew.

"If you say so," Rusty murmured at her assurances.

"Well . . ." She smirked. "Our lips might have touched once." To Ariela's intense rejection of her sudden intrusion, as she recalled. Not into other gals, that much was obvious. Had seemed, in fact, to set her sights on old Erik, that one. Now that pairing would certainly have been entertaining to witness!

"I knew it! Despoiling the innocent—so much like you, Runa. So much like you."

Runa snorted. She did not bother trying to deny the kernel of truth in Rusty's words. To be sure, a part of her would have liked to lay the little thing down for some—

_Stop it! She was a sweet, innocent girl; not one to be despoiled by one of your—_

_Oh, come now. What's innocence good for besides despoiling? Besides, as I recall, our little saint bashed in the face of a Foresworn. That don't sound to me like—_

The look on Hroar's face broke her inner dispute. She mirrored the frown. "What?"

"You got that look again, Runa." He shook his head. "I swear, it's like one side of your face is smiling and the other scowling; and that ain't but half of it. I'm telling you, it creeps me out no end when you get that way."

"Yeah, well," she said, downing the rest of her second ale. "Minding your own goddamn business would probably work wonders on that."

"Well," prompted Rusty. "What of the girl?"

"What _of_ her!" snapped Runa. "Saved her life, helped her out. And purely out of the kindness of my fucking heart, mind you."

"Your heart _is_ awful big."

"Damn straight. Unlike yours, of course; but then that's hardly the only part of you that's small and shriveled."

"Stop it, you two!" Hroar barked, pressing fingertips on his temples.

"What?" Runa asked. "Friendly banter now too much for your sensitive little ears as well?"

"Friendly?" Rusty said. "Is that what it was?"

"You've yet to see me mean, my boy."

"I dunno. I've shared a bed with you—"

Hroar groaned loudly. Then stood.

"Where do you think you're going?" Runa asked.

"Gotta take a piss," he replied. "May I?"

She waved a hand, and the man was off. Then she in turn got up to go fetch another drink. It was good to every once in a while when drinking, if only to ensure that one still could. She took the opportunity to trade some desultory words with the innkeep. Keeping close and personal relationships with such folks was an essential if often overlooked prerequisite of her trade. Then she returned to Rusty.

"He's awful dour today," he remarked as she sat, still nursing his first ale.

"Who?"

"Who? Hroar, who else?"

"Is he? I've hardly noticed."

"Might be better if you stop pestering him for the rest of the evening."

"Me? You're the one who keeps—"

"Shh! He's coming back."

Hroar walked by the table, standing there for a minute, giving them a chary looking over. His scraped steel armor dully reflected the candlelight of the chandelier above them. "What are you two up to now?"

Runa smirked up at him. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He sat down with a roll of his eyes and a grunt, downed the rest of his ale, and waved for another one.

"So, why were you asking about the scholar in the first place?" Runa asked Rusty. "Would you have wanted to get to know her better?"

Rusty snorted. "She was a little too mousy for my taste."

"Yeah, I know; you need a big and burly one to satisfy you. Like Hroar here."

"If only he'd be interested . . ."

"Gods, you two!" Hroar said. "Aren't you about done?"

Runa smirked at Rusty. "He's just being coy, you know."

"Oh, I knows!"

Hroar gave an irritated scowl. " _I know_! It's _I know_! Talk normal."

Rusty's eyes narrowed. "Are you mocking my heritage?"

Runa hissed, rolling her eyes. "You're back to that one again?"

"Excuse me? As if you could simply _choose_ who you are."

"I've often wondered whether you being a buffoon is simply who you are or if you have to work for it. In any case, no one has ever for a second believed the horseshit about your so-called heritage. You know it, we know it, and everybody knows it."

Rusty tried to look all indignant. "Well, I never."

"Tell me this, if it's supposed to be some 'heritage'—what heritage you've never bothered to mention, far as I know you're as Nord as they come—that makes you speak—not to mention _act_ —all weird, then how come you only do it sporadically? And you barely even do it these days."

He shrugged. "I've simply dropped the dialect over time."

"Oh, after you had first developed it long after your _balls_ had dropped? Don't forget that I've known you since you were a snot-nosed little shitweasel thrown out on your ass from the Bard's College."

He looked around furtively. "Please, Runa. Not so loud, someone might hear."

"Yeah, wasn't that precisely what they told you?"

Hroar snorted.

Rusty shot him a glare. "Oh, shut up. What would a brute like you understand of fine art?" Then he glared at Runa. "Or you. I've heard you sing."

"Hey, I sing like a—"

"Like a drunken horker in heat, yes. Anyway, they were simply envious of my talents. They knew I'd be the star of their little guild in a few short years and so decided to oust me. It's as clear as day."

Runa, shaking her head, said, "Your capacity for self-deception never ceases to amaze me."

Rusty did not seem to think that her observation warranted a reply. Indeed he appeared to make it seem as though he'd not even heard her, in his way confirming her words.

"Well, whatever," Runa said, waving for another drink. Best make it a couple this time, lest she have to keep pestering the poor overworked reptile.

Runa took the opportunity of the ensuing respite of silence to ponder what she was going to say. She now knew for certain that she needed her trusted companions' help in order to achieve the objective of her quest. Which, in truth, seemed increasingly more impossible the longer she spent thinking about it. So she did her best to think about it as little as she could, which was not easy given that the thing was constantly at the back of her mind, throbbing as if she'd taken a nasty blow to the occiput.

_How am I gonna sell this to them? I've talked them into to doing some crazy jobs before but this here is a whole different level of crazy. What do I even think I'm doing? I'm in way over my head here! Sheesh, what have I been thinking? I'm no great warrior. I'm an imposter! A total fraud—_

"So what's this about a job you mentioned?" Rusty said then. "You might need help, you said? Must be good money if you're willing to share. I for one am all ears."

Runa just stopped her eyebrows from jumping up. It was as though he'd read her mind. She shrugged. "Ah, it's nothing. Best forget I said anything."

"Oh! See how her eyes shift! She wants to keep it all to herself!"

She snorted, for some reason feeling budding alarm shuffle her insides. "It's just minor work, really," she said, nonchalant. "I don't think I'll actually be needing help."

Rusty eyed her through a suspicious squint. "If you say so."

"So I say," replied Runa, unstoppering a new ale.

A new stretch of silence, and Runa nearly winced underneath its weight. "Hey, I know," she said. "Let's play a game."

"Dice?" Hroar asked with a curled lip. He hated dice.

"Sounds good!" said Rusty, grinning at the other man.

"Nah," Runa said. "Nothing so uncouth. I've a good'n for ya. I call it. . . ' _I would like to kill'_."

Rusty arched a brow. "Really, Runa?"

"Really, Rusty. Now, here's how it goes: You say: 'I would like to kill. . .' and the rest, I believe, is self-explanatory. Alright, Rusty first. Go!"

He scowled.

" _I would like to kill._ . ." she helped.

It took a while of eye rolling before the man dignified a nod. "Alright fine. I'll play your childish game. Let's see. . . I would like to kill. . ." He looked up, thinking.

"It can't be a relative or an ex-lover."

" _What_ —"

"Too easy."

"Alright, true enough. Hmm . . ."

"It can be anyone—"

"I got one."

"Really? Let's hear it."

"I would like to kill . . . the new High Chancellor of the Elder Council."

Now it was Runa's turn to raise a brow. "Why him?"

He shrugged. "I hear that one likes to bugger little boys."

She gave it some though, made a face, and then nodded. "Alright. Sure. Makes sense. Good one. Now, speaking of buggered little boys—Hroar's next."

Hroar scowled.

"Now, don't you start as well! One balker will do."

"Okay, fine." He seemed to fold within himself then, the way he always looked when trying to form a cogent thought.

"Come on, be quick about it. We don't have all night for this."

"I'm _thinking_!" he said, his brow furrowing in concentration. "So many evil people in the world . . ." he mused, "so little time to kill them all."

She'd heard that one before. Seemed to be something of a refrain of his. A poet he wasn't.

"Well, you don't have to kill them all, just one will do. They don't have to be wicked either, according to the rules."

"There are rules?" Rusty asked.

She shrugged. "Some."

Hroar was still all folded within, frowning deeply.

"Just name one, for gods' sake, it's just a game!"

He scowled at her.

"Well, while he's thinking," Rusty said, "why don't you go?"

"Fine. I have, in fact, one already thought out. A real stunner. Alright, here goes. I would like to kill . . ." She left a long pause, so long that Rusty impatiently went to his bottle. She gave her companions a deliberate, shrewd little smirk. "Maven Black-Briar."

The bottle shot out of Rusty's mouth as if he'd been about to choke on it, ale spilling on his chin and on his armor, more on the table. He cast about furtively. "Are you _insane_?" he hissed. Then raised warding hands. "Alright, unnecessary question, I know." He frowned at her big grin. "I'd keep quieter if I were you. You know that is a very dangerous thing to say, even in jest."

She shrugged. "No jest."

He blinked. "Sure. Well, whatever. But don't say I didn't warn you."

"If I always heeded to everyone's warnings, I'd not have achieved half the things I have."

"You're gonna achieve a knife in the back and a slit throat if you go around shooting your mouth like that. Or would you characterize Maven as the understanding type?"

"If I gave my characterization of her, Hroar here would never regain the regular color of his face again."

Hroar, ignoring her, was shaking his head contemplatively. "She is dangerous, she is." Assumably meaning Maven.

"Thank you for that very elucidating contribution," said Rusty.

Hroar made a face at him. "Piss Maven off, and you can never show your face in this town again."

"I would sure miss these joyful evenings with you," Rusty said.

Runa shrugged. "We could always meet someplace else. Like Nightgate Inn."

Rusty wrinkled his nose.

"In any case," she said. "I never said I was gonna do it, just that I'd like to."

"Even I didn't think you were as mad as to actually plan it, Runa. That's not the point. Shooting your mouth like that is what I'd caution you against."

"You and everybody else. How do you judge it's been working so far?"

He grunted. "Point taken."

"Not just yet, it would seem."

"Well, whatever. What you got against old Maven anyway," Rusty said, but not without a careful peer around and a sufficient lowering of his voice. "Such a kind old lady."

"Oh, yeah sure. As a slew of unfortunate mangled bastards who got on her wrong side could surely testify. Even some on her better side, assuming there is one. No, in fact I've got no problem with her per se. I've no doubt that anyone in her position would be every bit as nasty. My point is simply this: don't you think it's about time someone else took over for a change? I mean, how old _is_ she, like a hundred? Her still tenaciously clinging onto her status as the queen bee of the underworld, don't you think it's, like, a tad bit _unfair_."

First Rusty snorted at the last word, then assumed an ironically puzzled expression. "What d'you mean _underworld_? Maven's a hard-working public official, the esteemed Jarl of the Rift. A woman of the people, Runa. What you're saying is as good as slander!"

"Ah, right. Of course. Forgot. Guess I owe her an apology."

"Now, when's the last time she accepted one of those?"

"True. Horstar No-fingers could tell you all about her forgiving heart."

"Horstar No _-head_ , the last I heard."

"Aww, now isn't that too bad."

"And, if the rumors hold true, Horstar No-coc—"

"Shh!" Runa hissed, wincing. "No need to go there."

He shrugged. "Someone begged to disagree. What, it's not like you even got one—"

"Yeah, well, I got lotsa empathy, alright? I can imagine myself in the place of my fellow man."

Rusty snorted.

Hroar set his fist onto then table, then, a decisive cast to his countenance. "Grelod the Kind."

Runa frowned. "Huh?"

"I wish I had killed Grelod the Kind."

Rusty's expression seemed to say, _not bad_.

" _That's_ not how you play this game!" Runa said. "You're supposed to begin with 'I would like to kill . . .'"

"That's one rule, then," said Rusty.

"It's no game," Hroar said solemnly. "I really do wish that it had been me to slit that crone neck of hers."

"It's over twenty years in the dirt. Way to not let the past go!"

Hroar responded that with a skewed glance. "And you have?"

A sudden memory, as fresh as it had ever been. Little Runa Fair-Shield, a resident of Honorhall Orphanage here in Riften, right around the corner from where they now sat, staring with her mouth open as a human-shaped shadow crept behind the hated head of the orphanage. The flash of light reflecting something sharp. A quick, fluid motion, and blood came gushing out from the neat incision that had appeared on her withered throat. The eyes wide in surprise and shock. Then the gurgling sound, and blood splattering out onto the table she was seated at. The shadow held the witch firmly in place as she finished dying. It seemed to take forever. Not as long as she deserved. And Runa simply stared. Transfixed. Stunned. Ecstatic. Then the hag slumping against the table, slowly sliding down to the floor.

And for the briefest moment, the eyes of Runa and the shadow had met. To this day she could not be sure: had the eyes glowed red as ambers like she remembered, or was that simply the added fancy of her imagination, pasted on the memory after the fact to lend it a further dramatic touch? As if that would have even been necessary.

But that did not matter. What mattered was the wordless understanding that had then seemed to pass between the two. Between Runa and this blessed apparition. Had the shadow given her a nod of acknowledgement? She liked to think so. As in, _you_ _are welcome. All I ask in return is your silence. In this, we are complicit._ This crime that was no crime at all. _Justice_. Or what in this world passed as such.

_Thank you_ , she wished that she'd been able to say. But she'd been rendered wordless. And then the shadow had slid out as soundlessly as it had entered. Incognito. Her savior. All of theirs. How she wished she could meet that shadow today. Shake his hand in gratitude. _Thank you!_

And then the other children had flooded into the dining room. The surprise. The shock. The joy! "She's dead!" they had cried. "Grelod the Kind is dead at last! We're saved!" Innocence . . . _regained_.

_Innocence_ , she though. _There's that word again._

Hroar had been no less overjoyed than the rest of 'em. She could still well recall the big grin that had appeared on his face after the initial astonishment. His eyes, one bruised from a blow from Grelod's bony hand just a couple of days back, glistening with deeply relieved delight.

Runa was drawn out of her reveries by Rusty's hand waving in front of her face.

"Come back to us," he said.

She swatted the hand away. "All in the past," she grunted. "And we have the Dark Brotherhood to thank for that." She snorted. "Imagine that. Saved by Sithis,"

"Uncomfortable as that may be," Hroar said. "I guess sometimes two wrongs can make a right." He sniffed. "You remember, what was it that Francois said again? ' _We love you Dark Brotherhood_!' Something along those lines. Guess he voiced what we all felt. Though as far as I know he was the only one of us who actually joined them later on."

"I wanted to, too," Runa said. "Before I came to my senses."

"Yeah, right. You were pretty adamant about that for a time. I wasn't sure if you'd do it. But it sure seemed as though what you saw had a big impact. What was it that you always said afterwards? ' _Kill one person_ —'"

"'— _and_ _you can solve so many problems. I wonder at the possibilities_.' And did I have the right of it or what? We've certainly explored those possibilities. How many problems we solved since?"

"I'd hazard that you've _caused_ at least as many," Rusty observed.

"Hush," said Runa. "The mug, the way I look at it, is half-full."

"Yours is empty. As is your bottle."

"Quit your nit-picking! Anyway, the bitch is long dead. It wasn't by your hand, Hroar, and that's that. Get over it, and just be glad _someone_ did it."

"Aretino," Hroar said.

"Allegedly."

He snorted. "Right."

Aventus Aretino, he had been one troubled kid. Of course, that could had been said about any of them, but he'd seemed to take it to a whole other level. And then he'd escaped the orphanage, leaving behind him the persistent rumor that he was intending to perform the Black Sacrament to get the Brotherhood to dispose of Grelod. Runa wasn't sure if anyone had truly believed he would. Until that day. And even then it was never confirmed. But they had all taken it as truth. Their one lost comrade in misery had saved them all.

Hroar raised his mug. "To Aventus."

Unenthusiastically, Runa joined the man in his toast, even if her mug was empty. This wasn't the first time they'd had that toast, but as always, there was a bittersweet tinge to that gesture.

After a moment's silence, Rusty smacked his lips. He reached his tankard to spill some of his drink into Runa's, as though out of pity. "So. What's next in the game?"

"That's it," she said.

"Really? Rather dull."

"Well you need more players, obviously."

"And then, preferably, someone to kill?"

Runa downed the drink with one toss, and shrugged. "If you like."

And they ordered another round.

They spent a while longer sitting there, drinking and shooting shit. Runa did her best to keep the conversation inane and amicable, as much as was possible with people like them. Then, after what she considered to be sufficient time of catching up and goofing around, maybe another hour or so, she rested her forearms on the table in front of her and gave her companions a sober regard.

"Well, you've talked me over boys."

"Huh?"

"About the mission. I'll let you tag along. Probably you'll just be in the way, but what are friends for if not for sharing, eh?"

Rusty rolled his eyes.

"But that means," Runa said, "no more carousing for tonight. We'll rise early in the morn to make a plan. You fellas ain't gonna be any use to me all hungover."

Rusty rolled his eyes again.

"So drink up, and we'll get rooms to rest."

Hroar was frowning.

"What is it now?"

"What's my name?"

"You're simply begging for me to say something sarcastic, you know."

"Hroar!" Hroar said. " _Hroar_. It's not. . . _Woof,_ or something. I'm not a dog."

Runa settled back, one eyebrow lazily arched.

"And because I'm not a dog, there are some things I don't do. I don't drool, and I don't _follow_!"

She eyed him a moment longer, then finished her drink and gave a resonant belch. "I'm thoroughly impressed," she said, then slamming the mug down and rising. "Now, be a good boy and come along."

Rusty was smirking at the other man, who pointed a sharp finger at him. "You keep your big mouth shut."

Without further complaints, the men then finished their drinks and followed after Runa.

"Just watch," she said over her shoulder. "I'm gonna make this worth your while."

"Uh-oh," said Rusty. "I think you meant to say: get us all killed."

Runa grinned.

_Like as not, Rusty. Like as not._

At least if she failed miserably, she'd have her friends to share her fate. How fortunate she was to have such good companions!


	5. Unfulfilled

"Bashnag. A Septim for your thoughts."

It had been a good long while, indeed all the way since when he was a runt, when Bashnag gro-Ghasharzol had last come anywhere near the vicinity of anything that could have been characterized as a _flinch_ , but now it was a damned near miss. "Nothin' important, sir," he rumbled. "Just, the prisoner. His unresponsiveness . . . bothers me. And I was just wonderin' what to do about it."

Far too many words there. He grunted. It hadn't been, of course, at all what he'd been thinking about. He could care less whether or not the cat talked. Almost better he did not.

"Still thinking about that, are you, old friend?" The Nightingale spiced his words with a tender smile. "Not to worry, his silence is hardly the greatest threat facing me."

Bashnag raised one eyebrow but infinitesimally. Hesitated.

"What is, then?" he finally asked. "Sir?"

The Nightingale reached up to place a hand on one of the Orsimer's massive shoulders. "Why, losing you, of course! So, please, try to stay with me here."

Bashnag grunted, giving a nod.

The Nightingale sat down in front of the table and lifted the goblet of wine to his lips, his eyes twinkling at Bashnag over the rim. For someone who could kill people within the blink of an eye without as much as a flicker of his, he could certainly have an affable air about him. To be sure, the sort of affable air that could just as soon turn into its opposite. Overall, his was a presence about which you could never be sure what, if anything, truly lurked behind it.

"As I said, this is going to be a rather busy day for us. Are you sure you won't join me for breakfast?"

"No, sir. Thank you. I prefer to not eat in the morning."

"Aye. I know. Honestly, for someone as bulky as yourself, I'd really expect you to eat much more than you do."

"Yes, sir."

The man eyed him for a moment longer before grunting softly. "I'm sure I will never quite come to understand you, friend. No matter, I shall be done shortly and then we can be on your way."

Bashnag grunted.

The Nightingale attended to his platter of fried potatoes, bacon, and eggs. Between bites, he kept talking. "I have been thinking. This place, I've grown weary of it of late. So . . . bleak. I believe, as our operation is moving into its next phase, it's time to consider a new home. Don't you agree?"

Bashnag had not heard any talk of any new phases until now. "As you say, sir."

"Not just as I say, Bashnag. This concerns you as well. Have you no opinion on the matter? Fret not, I would not ask if I did not truly want to hear it."

After a moment, he replied, "I can't say. I haven't thought about it. Sir."

"Yes," the Imperial mused. "Best not to rush it, true. However, I have given it quite some thought already. And I'm beginning to feel that we would do better someplace else. I am thinking we could return this castle to Isran. Do you think that our metal-armed friend would like that?"

"I imagine he might."

"It's settled then! After today, I shall start the necessary arrangements. Should not be overly complicated."

Bashnag grunted.

"Indeed." The Nightingale cast a nearly wistful eye about the room, furnished so plainly it was nearly a parody of minimal. He gave a small sigh. "I must admit to a personal weakness of mine, a touch of the sentimental. Most likely I shall miss even these desolate halls. Yet leave them behind I must."

Bashnag said nothing.

"But such is the way of the world. Tell, me have I ever spoken to you of my all-time favorite book, _The Compendium of the Great Philosophers in History and Their Contemporary Heirs_ by Gualtierus the Wiser?"

"No, sir." _Please, let us keep it that way._

"Indeed. Many are the dark hours of the night that I've spent poring over the small print of that tome. And over the years it has had a profound influence on my own thinking. I'm particularly fond of the chapter dedicated to the school of the teachings of Moraga Sunna, who proposed a rather radically impersonalist view of the cosmos. His emphasis on the transience and impermanence of all things has had a huge impact on me. It's almost the cornerstone of my personal . . . philosophy, if you will."

Bashnag grunted.

"And so you shall not see me shed a tear over having to move on. Much though a part of me would like to."

Bashnag could not as much as grunt, overtasked as he was suppressing his eyebrows which so badly would have liked to rise.

Finally the Nightingale set down his utensils, dabbed the corners of his mouth with a kerchief, and ran a seemingly careless hand over his sleek hair. As he rose, Bashnag felt every muscle in his body tensing.

"Relax, my friend," said the Nightingale. "I am only standing up."

"Of course, sir."

The Imperial's eyes narrowed. "You did not get that rest I told you to get, did you?"

"I did my best." Bashnag replied. He hated how plaintive it sounded in his own ears.

"As you say," the Nightingale sighed. "Well, nevertheless, it is too late now; the day beckons. And we must needs be on our way."

"Yes, sir." Bashnag spun around and made for the door. As he was about to set his hand down on the doorknob, he heard the Nightingale clearing his throat. Frowning, he looked over his shoulder, and felt his heart sink.

"Not that way," said the amused Nightingale. He gestured at the display to his left.

It was what he was gesturing at which had made Bashnag feel so ill at ease. A magical portal, blooming deep purple and black at its center and radiating unhealthy looking light outwards, punctured the air in the middle of the room. He suppressed a swallow, and replaced that with a low growl. Magic made him feel uneasy at the best of times: being a Dull himself it was simply something he could not understand by way of experience or reasoning. But Daedric magic was even worse.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I know how you feel about this kind of thing. But I'm afraid we've no choice. We cannot afford to waste time today, I'm sorry to say."

Bashnag grunted. "Yes, sir." Then, steeling himself, he started towards the unholy apparition.

Smiling, the nightingale followed suit.

At the threshold, Bashnag nearly wincing at the wind that was not a wind which blew from within that dark voidness, they stopped. "I shall go—"

"We shall go together," the Nightingale said gently, placing a hand at Bashnag's back and, surprisingly strong as usual, shoved his bodyguard forwards as he himself followed in step. And the world melted away.

The pit of Bashnag's stomach tightened as he fought the ensuing sensation of weightlessness, as though the bottom of the world had suddenly fallen off. It lasted no longer than for a single step, but he was certain that any longer time spent in that space that was no space at all would have emptied him of everything that he had in him.

And then they were somewhere else entirely.

As bemused as Bashnag felt, the amount of bemusement in the first pair of eyes that his own chanced upon at this new scene was at least dozen-fold. The stooped man, old beyond his years, looked as though he might just keel over in horror at any moment. But then Bashnag knew from experience that this was simply the base level expression in them these days, and their sudden entrance had only ramped up that emotion minimally and temporarily.

True enough, just as soon as the portal had vanished behind him, Falk Firebeard dropped his bloodshot eyes to the ground in front of him, as if the weight of them was too much for his stooped back to bear. Honestly, Bashnag did not know what sheer force of will still kept the sick man alive, let alone attending to the doubtless endless meetings held at his liege lady's court.

And speaking of the said liege lady, the High Queen Elisif the Fair looked no more surprised than she did pleased about their sudden appearance. Of course, there was no doubt that she'd been perfectly aware of their coming. This now, what she was showing them, was simply part of that intricate web of intrigue which she employed when dealing with those that she had to deal with. As oblivious in general as Bashnag had to admit to being when it came to womenfolk in general, this one sitting on that opulent throne was an entire case unto herself.

The woman shifted slightly on the hulking plywood contraption, draped one pale leg over another while adjusting the hem of her simple yet decidedly expensive-looking dress of gold, red and white. On top of the tall, purple velvet-cushioned seat's headrest perched the head of a wolf, the symbol of Solitude. The minute details of the sculpture were truly something to behold—as were the equally well-proportioned features of the face beneath it, the strong and delicate contours to which Elisif owed her sobriquet. There did not seem to be much that time had been able to do to reduce their captivating power. If anything, the opposite was true.

With ease brought by years of careful practice, the High Queen kept the stare in her deep-blue eyes impassive while relieving none of their power. She remained silent, as usual, waiting for the other party to utter the first words.

Was there more to this woman, Bashnag had to wonder, than the perfect persona she presented to the world? Yet he could just as easily have asked that question of the person standing in front of Elisif. And he had, many times, done just that.

The Nightingale gave a deep, theatrical bow. "Ah, Your Grace. As delightful to the eye as ever."

A barely perceptible shift of Elisif's head, like an infinitesimal sniff.

The man then turned slightly to her left-hand side, nodding his head at the cowled, completely immobile figure standing there. "And Sybille," he said. Then smiled in silence, as if to extenuate the absence of sweet addendums about the sight of her. "As usual."

A small arch of smile curled one side of Sybille Stentor's colorless lips, her mouth more or less the only part of her pallid face visible from underneath the midnight blue cowl. Bashnag was always glad when he did not see the Court Wizard's eyes. There was something unaccountably eerie about them, and it never failed to send shivers spiraling down his spine when he was forced to get a look at them.

Conspicuously ignoring the stooped man to Sybille's left—as he typically did, as though deeming the man dead already, quite in spite of the man's insistence on tenuously clinging to his life—the Nightingale gave brief consideration to one more person in the room: a young man slumped on a chair almost in the corner of the room to Elisif's right, his long legs stretched far in front of himself, slender-fingered hands hanging lazily off the ends of the armrests. "And young master Jagar," he said with another nod.

The boy waved a lackadaisical hand by way of response, returning then to what to an untrained eye would have passed for inattention. But Bashnag knew better than that. There would be not a word spoken in this room to escape Jagar's notice. The keen blue eyes, inherited wholesale from his mother, feigning apathy underneath that almost comically disheveled mop of dark hair, would likewise flicker time and again toward the center floor and glean whatever detail needed discerning. Ever since his presence, or indeed his very existence, had entered public light just a couple of years ago, he had attended nearly every meeting his mother had held. And he had been learning.

The boy was growing up, in other words. And there was no doubt in Bashnag's mind that he had a future ahead of him. The nature of which he did not dare to even contemplate.

The Nightingale's attention then returned to the Sovereign. "Your Grace—"

"Please!" Elisif interrupted. "Dispense with the pretentious styles. You've never shown any reverence towards me before. Why start now?"

Unfazed, the man smiled up at the High Queen for a moment. "As you wish, Elisif. I was just trying it on for a size."

This time the sniff which rocked Elisif's head was an unabashed one. She impatiently swept aside a wanton strand of her voluminous strawberry blonde hair, but otherwise her composure retained its poise.

"In any case, I am pleased that you made time for this meeting."

"Please," Elisif said again, in a wary tone this time. "As if I had a choice."

"We are always given a choice," the Nightingale replied.

"Are we truly?"

He smiled. "Why, yes, of course! Now, a _free_ choice?" He shrugged. "Perhaps not."

"What do you want this time?"

"Blunt as ever, eh? Well, have it your way."

"I've made a habit of it."

The Nightingale smiled. "Yes. As have I."

"I am aware."

"I know you are."

"And so?"

The Nightingale feigned puzzlement. "And so . . . what?"

"Why are you here?" As Sybille Stentor's voice broke out of that unmoving shell, as unexpected as if spoken by a statue, Bashnag found himself getting dangerously close to another damned flinch. The serpentine sound's utter lack of warmth was on par with the corpselike impression of the rest of her.

"Was that a philosophical question?" the Nightingale asked, looking almost as though he was hoping it was.

"Now, how many of those have you heard me asking?"

"Far as I know, you're not keen on asking questions to begin with."

She gave a minute shrug. "It is regrettably rare for anyone to know anything that I do not. Or would care to."

"Indeed."

"What prompts that smug grin?"

"So, it is either that you already know what I'm here for, or you truly do not care," he said. "Frankly, I would not put either past you."

Stentor's reply was a smile of her own—if indeed such an innocuous characterization applied here.

"My time, alas, is finite," the Nightingale said, still addressing his words to the sorceress, "and so frivolous calls are by no means my idea of time well spent. I hardly need to tell you that my businesses extends beyond the boundaries of this province, and as of late I have spent many hours conferring with my many alliances. In fact, I just recently returned from Cyrodiil."

"I hear the local chapter of the Guild there has been growing rapidly."

Guild was pretty much synonymous with Brotherhood these days, as both the Thieves' Guild and the Dark Brotherhood had been run by one and the same man for the last two decades.

"Indeed. Good, capable people over there. As they, of course, tend to be everywhere."

"I'm sure."

Bashnag had not greatly enjoyed said trip. While he was used to the Nightingale's associates around Skyrim, meeting with those outside always rubbed him raw somehow. As though seeing it from an outside perspective showed their whole sordid operation in an uninvitingly revealing light. He sensed that new vistas might have opened for him had he not chosen to steadfastly turn a blind eye to them all.

"Excuse me," Elisif broke in, "but what does any of this have to do with your being here?"

"I have some announcements to make," the Nightingale said bluntly.

Elisif arched a lazy brow and leaned back. "Really?"

"Really."

They spent a short moment, then, staring at each other, and Bashnag for that moment could feel their unswerving wills grind against each other. These two, absolute authorities on their own turfs, two perfect masks hiding unfathomable mysteries, each appearing about a decade younger than their actual age, each more than practiced in these kinds of games. And soon he felt beads starting to gather about his brow. At that moment, he felt as keenly as he ever had that this sort of environment was about as far as possible from those that his kind had been bred for.

_It's your weakness showing, that is all!_

Finally Elisif was the one to break the silence, with a soft sniff and a dismissive wave of her hand, managing to do it all without any impression of having relented anything. Bashnag nearly exhaled in relief. "Announce away," she said.

The Nightingale smiled, but there was nothing at all arrogant about it. "First order of business, I'm starting the fights at Faldar's _Wolf Pit again. It's been a long time coming, after that debacle a couple years back, but I believe the good gambling folks of Skyrim deserve the chance to again lose their money at our most legendary fighting den."_

_"_ _Wouldn't want them denied that."_

_"_ _I knew you'd understand. After all, as long as the good Emperor continues to deny our humble province a perfectly legal fighting arena, there needs to be_ _some_ _place where the people can satisfy their base desire for witnessing senseless bloodshed. Anyway, might be good you inform your people again that the place is to be left alone."_

_"_ _I'm sure they won't need my word for it. When was the last time you saw guards step out of their usual jurisdiction?"_

_"_ _I'm sure that you're right. Well, just thought you ought to be informed."_

_"_ _Consider me informed. Now, what else?"_

_He inclined his head. "A new patch of . . . er, entertainers, will shortly arrive from Cyrodiil. Varied enough for all tastes, I should think. I expect most of them will stay at the Golden Glow Estate."_

_Elisif curled her lip, though Bashnag though there was something rehearsed about the gesture. "Let's not linger on it."_

_"_ _As you wish. Ah, and speaking of the Rift, and on a somewhat unrelated note, I believe there are visitors from another province looking for someone, and they've caused some disturbance south of Ivarstead."_

_"_ _Which province?"_

_"_ _I believe Hammerfell."_

_Elisif made a face. "I'll inform Maven—" Something in the Nightingale's smile gave her pause. "You've spoken to her already, haven't you?"_

_He made a facetiously shamefaced gesture of admission._

_She hissed, tossing her hands in the air. "_ What do you even need me for?"

"Well, you do make a rather pretty figurehead."

Genuine ire flashed in Elisif's eyes. An almost unnoticeable noise came from the direction of Jagar, and it took a moment for Bashnag to identify it as a snort. In any case, and probably to the lad's benefit, it escaped his mother's notice.

"No, no!" the Nightingale said, waving his hands placatingly. "That was uncalled for, and I do humbly apologize! I simply could not resist the jest."

He then went on to assure the High Queen of her importance, launched into a rather verbose speech over her equal-to-none capableness in governing, her sharp wit and intelligence, and so on and so forth. Soon Bashnag found his attention simply wilting away, and truth be told Elisif appeared rather bored herself.

Bashnag's eyes slid to the still slumping Jagar, still feigning disinterest—honestly, was anyone fooled by that?

The boy's appearance was by no means displeasing to the eye. Not handsome, exactly, but his finely solid features, much similar to his mother's, held undeniable attractive power. Most evocative of Elisif in his aspect were the blue eyes, the high cheekbones, and the full lips, while the aquiline nose, the high forehead, and the dark hair bore stark resemblance to his most likely father candidate—who happened to be none other than the Emperor Attrebus II. Though of course it went without saying that no official recognition of paternity had ever been given. And no one had ever made any attempt to get one, either. It seemed that Elisif had no interest in a claim for her son's place in the line of ascension, which was perhaps a bit curious. Could have been that she recognized the hopelessness of it.

_And good on her. More power is the last thing anyone needs, from where I stand._

What kind of a relationship, Bashnag wondered, did the boy have with the High Queen? For reasons he did not care to contemplate, he found himself hoping that Elisif, for all her understandably unrelenting airs, was also a kind mother. After all, the boy had already grown without a father . . .

_Can't say I don't wish that I was that lucky_.

He frowned. While it was undeniable that the great war chief Ghornag gro-Ghasharzol had been, and likely still was, one unkind brute of a man, it wasn't as if this was an altogether unusual feature among his race. And while his father's hard-handed brand of tough love and his utter lack of any other kind had imprinted him as little but a fearsome tyrant in little Bashnag's mind, this might have been a less bitter truth had it been supplemented with the assuaging soft comfort of a mother. But he'd known no such luck. His mother might have beaten him only rarely, but her displays of affection had been even less frequent. In fact, he could not remember a single solitary time.

Hardly seemed like an unreasonable thing for a small runt to ask, waking up alone in the dark of the night after a bad dream and having someone there to seek refuge in. To have, if just occasionally, someone hold you in their arms and offer solace in face of the vast and frightening word, provide the support you needed to build resilience to meet that place where harsh words and beatings came far easier than did kind words or warm embraces. In short, being loved. But after a lifetime, he had come to accept that such things were not in the cards for him. There was only so much fortune you could hope to come by in a world like this, and not everyone was as deserving of such luxuries as love.

To his dismay, Bashnag suddenly felt a restriction in his throat, and felt his eyes begin to burn.

He drowned it all underneath a long growl deep in his throat.

Then all eyes were on him, and he felt an astringent pang of shame.

"What's wrong with him?" asked the frowning High Queen, and Bashnag found that he could not face her scrutiny.

The Nightingale, by contrast, was his usual insouciant self. "Bashnag? Oh, he just does that sort of thing. Part of the reason I keep him around, tell you the truth. Keeps people on their toes."

Somewhat doggedly, Elisif pulled her eyes away from the huge Orsimer. "If you say so."

At least half a dozen different involuntary reactions tried to wash over Bashnag, but he crushed them with fierce determination, and made sure to let nothing of his inner turmoil leak to the outside.

"Are you quite done, then?" Elisif asked the Nightingale.

"If it please you."

"It pleases me for you to finish with your announcements. I have other affairs to attend to this day, and I think soon questions will be raised about why I'm keeping the palace locked for so long in the middle of the day."

"Ashamed of me?"

Elisif snorted. "I believe I need not explain myself."

"Too true. Yet I think it is also true that no one around here would recognize me. Anyone who'd say so, in any case."

"Be that as it may," Elisif drawled frostily.

"As you wish. I myself have other business to attend to. Let's see . . . Well, from now on all the skooma trade in the province will be sanctioned by myself. Needless to say, divergences will not be met with approval."

"Isn't that just how it's always been?"

"Is it? Hmm, perhaps you're right." He shrugged. "Guess that's it, then."

She stared. "In the end, you came all the way here just to inform me on a bunch of trivialities."

"It was hardly a long and laborious journey."

"Beside the point, yet again. Was that all that this was about?"

The Nightingale regarded the High Queen with a shrewd smile on his lips. "You and I both know that it's never about just that."

Elisif stared down from her high throne with undisguised displeasure, a stare that would have certainly made a lesser mortal wither—though of course not one such as the Nightingale. No doubt it took considerable prowess to draw out any external sign of perturbation from her, but there it was. There was, of course, no trace of such a thing in the countenance of the impervious Court Wizard by her side; just that small, ironic, knowing, lifeless smile of hers.

"Well," said the Nightingale, "unless you have some vital things you need to bring to my attention, I believe we'd best be on with our busy days."

"Nothing comes to mind," Elisif replied sardonically.

"Alright, then." The Nightingale bowed. "Good day, to each and all. Until we meet again."

"Can hardly wait," said Elisif.

"Yes." The Nightingale seemed intent on overlooking the irony of her tone. "Me neither, Elisif. Me neither."

The sinister statue that was the Court Wizard then came to life. "I shall walk them to the door. If I may?"

The latter part of her words had been directed at Elisif, who replied with a wave of an indifferent hand.

"Very well," said the Nightingale. He gave one more parting nod. "Your Grace. And young master."

Walking down the other of the two arching sets of stairs, the marble underneath their feet giving a hollow resonance in the spacious foyer of the Blue Palace, the sun shining brightly through the stained glass dome above them, Sybille Stentor spoke quietly. "You take quite some pleasure in agitating her, don't you?"

"Me?" the Nightingale replied. "Never! And do you mean to tell me Her Grace _can_ be agitated?"

She afforded him a sidelong glance, then snorted. She made even that sound inhuman.

"No, dear Sybille. I only take pleasure in things running smoothly, the way that they ought to. And that can only happen when everyone involved knows their place, and plays their part accordingly."

"I'm sure you do not believe that Elisif—"

"Certainty, I'm afraid" the Nightingale said, "is in regrettably short supply in our world. And _belief_. . . well, that and half a Septim might buy you a cup of ale at the local tavern; though more likely it'll only buy you the innkeeper's disdain. Understand what I'm saying?"

"As usual, I'm not quite sure."

The two guards posted at the bottom of the stairs seemed to grow agitated at their passing. Would have been difficult to guess which of the three made them feel the most uncomfortable, though the combined effect assuredly rendered such questions moot.

The Nightingale stopped at the door, turning to afford Sybille a sober regard. "Things are always changing, everything in the universe being in flux and all."

"And what does that mean?"

He gave a shrug. "It means whatever we make of it. Me? Well, I've still got quite a task ahead of me, as you know. We both are well aware of the immensity of the demands made of us. We each have our duties. I'm handling mine. You just make sure that you handle yours."

"You needn't worry on my account."

He smiled. "I never worry."

She returned the smile. "As you say."

Bashnag suppressed a shiver. Then swallowed a grunt.

The Nightingale inclined his head to the Court Wizard. "The blessings of Sithis be upon you."

Sybille's reply was a silent nod, the pale lips still strewn in a smile.

As the warm sunlight fell upon them upon leaving the palace, Bashnag closed his eyes, struggling hard to hold back the sigh of relief. After the confines of the palace, the stifling air of all the barely held-back hostility, all the dark and disturbing things left unsaid yet keenly present nonetheless . . . the sensation of escaping a tomb could not have been more liberating. Then, as they walked down the sloping cobblestone street, the deep shadows of the dark multistoried buildings with their steep cable roofs engulfed them, and Bashnag felt cold all over again.

His charge, on the other hand, looked as chipper as ever. "So that went nicely."

_How else could it have gone?_ "Yes sir."

"Nice touch with the well-timed growl. Couldn't have thought of a better accentuation to my words if I had tried."

A pang of shame. "Yes sir."

"You, of all people, know where words are needed and where not. Silence, my friend, is not only the sweetest music, but often the soundest of tactics. I see I still have a lot to learn from you."

"Yes—"

"Good sir!"

They stopped in their tracks at the cheerful cry from behind them. As they spun, Bashnag frowned.

"Wait up a second, yeah?"

None other than the young master Jagar frolicked down the slope, waving a hand as though at a passing stagecoach. Studying the swiftly nearing young man, the Nightingale's eyes narrowed a touch.

The boy caught up with them, panting slightly. He was wearing all black, a simple tunic and breeches, as if he did his best to try conceal his royal birth. A small satchel hung over one shoulder. Was he in the habit of walking about like that, without guards? "Whew, for an old-timer you sure are fast on your feet," he said.

The Nightingale's eyes narrowed again.

"A lovely day wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," the Nightingale replied.

Jagar then draped an arm over the older man's shoulder, and the Nightingale looked at the uninvited limb as though it were some highly exotic animal. "Mind if I walk with you a bit?"

Curiously, Bashnag's initial reaction to this most-unseen infraction was a devilish tug at the corners of his mouth. Soon, however, a more suitably bodyguard-y response came forth, and he took an unmistakably hostile step forward.

The Nightingale lifted a warding hand. "That's quite alright, Bashnag." He seemed to have recovered from the boy's intimations and was keeping an impressive reign on his temper. To Jagar he said, "Of course you can walk with us."

And so walk they did.

Feeling somewhat short of comfortable in his present company, Bashnag did his best to surreptitiously enjoy the lovely day. Though they were presently engulfed by shade, the sheer sight of the sunlight as it set ablaze the dark rooftops and illuminated the snowy top of the mountain looming right to the north of the city was enough to return some warmth to his spirits. The air was balmy even here in the shade, and there was no way to avoid the sweet fragrance of the soft spring breeze, freshly blooming flowers and young foliage, which mixed with the smell of dry timber, tar, and damp stone. As he breathed deep he felt almost dizzy. Fluttering in wildly erratic trajectories were dozens of butterflies of varying colors. Looking at them Bashnag felt bittersweet: he'd waited to see them for the entire winter, but now that they were here he found himself envying their unfettered freedom. Yet, all told, he could not for the moment have envisioned a more beautiful place to be right now. How he wished that he could have simply enjoyed it in silence for a while.

But of course that was not to be.

"A good meeting," Jagar told the Nightingale, his arm back to himself again. "Short but interesting, my kinda affair."

The Nightingale glanced over. "You were listening?"

"Of course I was listening! I always do."

"Yes," the Nightingale said. Bashnag did not suspect for a second that the man had been fooled by Jagar's supposed inattention.

"I'm quite good at listening, you know. And I can't even tell you how many _excruciating_ hours I've spent these last couple of years, listening to meetings that just drone on and _on_ , and with scarcely a thing worth talking about being said. And don't even get me _started_ on the endless petitions of the common folk! How utterly _pathetic_!"

"Aye," said the Nightingale. The meaning of it was unmistakable: _I could not care less, so why won't you shut up already?_

Bashnag, based on the lad's last comment, passingly wondered whether the attitude he showed here was the one Jagar intended to take with him onto the throne once that day came. _If_ that day ever did come, which to him did not necessarily seem like the most desirable of prospects.

"Say," Jagar said, "there is actually a specific reason I caught up with you."

"Indeed?"

"Oh, for sure! There's something that has been bothering me for quite some time, and, knowledgeable chap as you surely are, I was wondering if you could offer me some help." His hand went into his satchel. "You don't happen to be well versed in prophecy, now are ya?"

" _Prophecy_?" the Nightingale replied with a soft frown. "No, I'm afraid I'm not."

"Ah, well that's just too bad. 'Cause I was hoping you could help me out here, this has really been baffling me."

The Nightingale looked at the book the boy produced from his satchel. " _The Book of the Dragonborn_ ," he read.

"Yes, sir! Have you heard of it?"

The Nightingale looked to be thinking for a second, then gave a casual shrug. "I might have. I've stumbled across all kinds of books in my time."

"I'm sure you have. But this one, I'd hazard, is quite unlike other books."

"Indeed? And what makes you say that? A book of prophecies, I take it?"

"Not exactly. But there is _a_ prophecy. Here, Lemme recite it for ya." Before anyone could dissuade him, he flipped the pages to the end of the book, and started reading with an affected, portentous voice. " _When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world. When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped. When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles. When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls. When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding.  
The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn_." He looked up from the book. "Well?"

"That's cute," the Nightingale replied.

"Oh, I think it's more than just cute, my good man! Here, let's look at it more closely, shall we. _Misrule and the eight corners of the world_? Certain events of a long-bygone usurpation come to mind—I shan't even mention the unfortunate forename of the perpetrator in question! The Brazen Tower? That's Numidium ain't it? Walking an' all. And that caused that whole weird Warp in the West business, time bending out of shape and whatnot—honestly, who the hell can make sense of that, right? Anyway, then we've got the Red Tower trembling. That's easy-peasy: Red Mountain, obviously. Then the Dragonborn ruler—easy again, Uriel Septim—keeling over, and the White— well, you know, White Gold Tower—falling: the Aldmeri invasion. Last, the Snow Tower—lotsa towers, what's up with that anyhow?—which I'm not totally sure of, but it's obvious we're talking the Skyrim civil war here. And—ta-da!—the World Eater awakes and the Last Dragonborn cartwheels to the stage, eh? The World Eater would be Alduin, of course, a big, bad black dragon straight from the dusty pages of ancient antiquity." He went silent, looking at the Nightingale expectantly.

"I can see that you have a keen interest in history as well."

"Hah! I hate it! Unbelievably dull and most often outright redundant. However, I do realize its importance and so do my best to suffer through it and learn what I can. But that's hardly the point here, now is it? Can't you see? This prophecy, from where I'm looking at it, should've by all means come true!" He waved his arms. "But I ain't seen no black dragons nor no frigging Dragonborn. What's up with that, right?"

The Nightingale studied the boy. "How did you piece all this together, son? All by yourself?"

Jagar flashed a shrewd smile. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't."

"Well, in any case, it's clear to me that you've a sharp head on you. Take good care of it, that's the best weapon you'll ever acquire."

"Was well aware of that already—no offence to you, sir."

The Nightingale smiled. "None taken." In spite of the man's typically blasé airs, Bashnag was struck with the odd feeling that he was bothered by something.

"Is that all you've got to say, though? Don't you think this is fascinating?"

"Honestly? Can't say that I do."

"Really? That's strange. That's how almost everybody's always replied to me. I thought you'd be different, somehow."

"How so?"

"I dunno. Something about you, I guess. Something not quite ordinary. A great mystery of some sort."

The Nightingale snorted. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, lad! All things considered, there is very little extraordinary about me. Only resolve and motivation set me apart from most people—the drive to get exactly where I want to be, and the will to work unrelentingly until I meet my goals. If I'd like to inspire anything in you, young man, it's that. That can make all the difference in the world."

Jagar did not look particularly impressed. "If you say so. But tell me this: have you heard the rumors? I'm sure you must have, over the years! They say it wasn't the Stormcloaks that burned down the town of Helgen after all. Many swear it was a dragon—come from nowhere! A big, black one, no less."

The Nightingale came to a halt and regarded the boy, and a very solemn regard it was, devoid of his usual air of nonchalance. "We have a choice in life," he said in a low yet very poignant voice. "We may choose to live it according to wishful fantasies, half-chewed beliefs, rumors and popular conceptions—all that _muck_. Or we may rely on reason and what our own instincts and senses tell us. I'd advise you, young master Jagar, to think very carefully about which you want to base your life on." He regarded the boy in silence for a few heartbeats, then his light mood seemed to return in one fell swoop. He shrugged. "It's your decision, of course. And don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."

As they walked on, Jagar looked to be pondering the Nightingale's words. Then, shrugging, he slid the tome back into his satchel. "On another note, I liked it what you said to my mother in there. About her being a figurehead. The old lady _really_ didn't like that, I could tell!"

The Nightingale afforded him but a brief glance.

With a couple strides of his long legs, Jagar walked right in front of the Nightingale, forcing him to stop. "You know the thing with figureheads . . .," he said. He grinned down at the Nightingale, being a full head taller. "No matter what a nice one you have, you can always replace it with another."

The Nightingale frowned at the boy, who kept smirking knowingly. Bashnag then shifted to remove the obstacle.

But Jagar stepped aside before he got to it. "Anyway, 'twas a nice chat, but I'll let you get back to your busy whatevers. I might enjoy a bit of a stroll myself before the day's next congregation of soporific bores." He bowed, as if in mockery of the Nightingale's manner. "Until we meet again, eh? That is, should such a fortunate occurrence still come upon us. Farewell!" And away he sprang.

The Nightingale followed the sight of the boy's jauntily distancing back, his eyes narrowing again. "I do not trust that lad," he said quietly, then paused. "Or like him."

Bashnag grunted.

"Indeed," said the Nightingale. "Well. Shall we?"

"Aye, sir."

And in a blessed, welcome stretch of silence, they walked out of Solitude.


	6. Altercations

Runa did not much care for the aspect of that morning sun. Unhindered by as much as a scrap of cloud, it poked hostilely through the fresh foliage of the surrounding trees, looking every bit as though it was planning to shine down as relentlessly as it had these past few days. She'd have to be extra careful to keep hydrated. Yet she'd also need to be careful about the nature of her hydration, so as not to compromise the sharpness of her wit. She suspected she would need all of her wits about her today.

Behind her, Rusty groaned. "Why do we have to be up at such a gods-forsaken early hour?"

They stood beside the Riften stables outside the city wall. A stagecoach waited for customers nearby, the driver sleeping in a very awkward-looking position on his seat, the horse looking like it could also stand to sleep—say, forever. Behind, the stable master, who also doubled as the stablehand, was busy pitchforking hay in front of the horses in the ramshackle stall hunching by the even more ramshackle house, or _shack_ , in which he lived. There was another man on the shack's sagging roof, fighting a losing fight against the inevitable by supplanting old missing shingles with new ones, which didn't in fact look any newer.

"Early worm gets the bird, Rusty!" Runa said. "Besides, it ain't exactly dawn no more; the sun's been up for a good five hours."

"I never get up before noon," he replied. "Especially if I've been drinking."

"Evil never sleeps," muttered Hroar beside him.

"And you, do _you_ ever lighten up?"

Hroar shot the other man a quick glower but made no reply.

It did seem that the big boy had woken up on the wrong side of the bed, and was perhaps even worse than usual. Runa was hoping that this mission would prove to cheer him up.

_Yeah, 'cause ain't nothing gonna cheer a man up more than facing certain death!_

"Fuck yourself," she mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind, Rusty."

She gave a mighty stretch and an even mightier yawn, and then proceeded to gather their horses. After her usual coquettish—well, coquettish by her standards, leastways—song and dance with the stable master, conveying the usual implication that the lifelong discount he'd more or less granted her would soon enough see a worthy compensation—and it wasn't as if the Redguard was bad looking fellow for his age, and most likely didn't get too much action and so might well be eager to prove himself, so why not . . . one of these days . . . when she got around to it—she took Frost by his reins and started to walk her down the gently sloping cobbled road.

"I say we walk a bit first, I feel like I need to use my legs," she called behind her.

Rusty groaned.

"What, I'd imagine your backside would welcome the rest after all night spent with Hroar."

She could practically hear the eyes of her companions rolling.

Runa gave the two men the chance to catch up with her, then took a deep breath and let it escape in a big, contented sigh. "Ah, well isn't this nice! A beautiful morning, with a big adventure ahead of us. Just like old times, eh?" The droves of songbirds in the trees all around them seemed to accentuate her words with their polyphonic chirp and twitter.

Glancing over her shoulder, the others did not seem to share her optimistic enthusiasm.

"What? Come now, doesn't this feel right? The old gang, together again. Runa, Rusty, and Hroar—the three R's!"

"How many times do I have to tell you," said Hroar with a sigh, "Hroar is spelled—"

" _Don't_ ," Runa said with a sharply raised hand, "ruin this for me."

His reply was, once more, wholly predicable.

"You know, one day your eyes are gonna stay that way."

"That is a real concern," he replied. "But perhaps not the greatest of threats when it comes to going along with your crazy schemes."

"Yeah, I know. Getting rich, of course, being the most prominent one. See, there you go again!"

"Speaking of riches, Runa. Care to finally elucidate the exact nature of this clandestine job of yours?"

"All in good time, Rusty."

"Something wrong with _this_ time?"

She studied him. "Alright. Fine." She sniffed. "Men, always so impatient."

It was then the other man's turn to roll his eyes.

"We're gonna kill someone," Runa announced.

Rusty snorted. "That's hardly a revelation. _Who_ ," he said, "are we gonna kill?"

She smiled saintly at the men, then turned to face forward. "The Nightingale."

"What? Speak louder—"

"The Nightingale, Rusty," she said, turned back to the men again. "We're been hired to kill the Nightingale." And then faced the road again.

After a few more paces, she realized the she and her horse were walking alone. She halted to take a gander behind her. Her companions were standing where they had stood when she had told 'em, with their stares of bald dismay.

"What?"

" _What_?!" cried Rusty, finally breaking out of his stupor. " _What_!? What do you mean _what_? So, you were joking, right. Of course you were, _of course_! Ha ha, joke's on us, you got us that time. Very good. Now tell us who we're really after?"

Hroar beside them did not look as though he shared Rusty's assessment. He looked less shocked now, what with that deep, furrowed frown and the fists bunched beside him.

"No joke," Runa said as soberly as possible. "That is our mission. We're gonna take out the Nightingale, the three of us." She then walked on.

Rusty strode to catch up with her. "So, you're serious?"

"All these years, have you ever known me not to be serious?"

He blinked at her for a few heartbeats. " _How_ ," he then cried, "do you imagine we're gonna pull _that_ off?"

She shrugged. "As always. By the use of our cunning and skill."

"Yeah," he huffed sarcastically. "Right."

"Yeah," said Runa by way of confirmation. "Right."

Hroar had also caught up with them and chimed in. Curiously, he did not look so much cross as he did genuinely concerned. "Look, what I think Ariachius is trying to say—"

"Wait, _who_?"

Hroar sighed as Rusty was rolling his eyes. Then he rolled his. "Rusty."

"Ah. So what, then? I though he was just tryin' to bitch at me."

Rusty scowled. "No, what I was—"

"Hush, you. Let the smart one try 'n explain."

" _He_ 's the—?"

"He is now. I just done promoted him. Okay, Hroar, go."

"It's just that, well, we all like breathing, okay? Having our throats sliced open would not play too favorably to that end."

"Not you too now! Not like you at all to get all cute on me."

He came to walk right beside her. "Look," he said. "Be reasonable. Surely you can see how this looks?"

Runa shrugged. "Looks like good money."

"Looks like—?" Hroar stopped, took a long, steadying breath. "Okay. I can see where you're coming from. But look at this from our persp—"

"How," said Rusty, having now come close to Runa on her other side, "good of a money are we talking about here?"

Hroar scowled. "Now don't you also start—"

"A hundred thousand."

"Holy shit!"

"That's right, Hroar. A whole shitload."

"Well," exhaled Rusty. "That certainly puts a new spin on it."

"Sure makes your head spin, don't it?"

"Of course, once divided three ways. . ."

"Wait just one second. Who said anything 'bout sharing alike?"

Rusty stared. "You must be joking—."

"Of course I'm joking," Runa said. "Obviously we'll be sharing it evenly." Adding with a mutter, "Even though I'd most likely end up doing most of the work."

"Hundred divided by three," said Rusty, "what's that, like thirty-three thousand. That's still a pretty comfortable amount of money."

"Wouldn't help much if all of the underworld of Tamriel was after our heads," Hroar said.

"Well," Runa said, "of course we'd have to find a way of doing it so that they won't know it was us."

"Ah. So not only do we have to pull off the impossible, but do it so that no one will even notice. Got it, Runa. When you put it like that, why, I for one am fully convinced now."

"Drop the sarcasm, big boy. It don't fit you _at all_."

"If we truly could do it surreptitiously. . ." mused Rusty.

"Big if," Hroar said.

"We could," Runa assured. "Somehow."

"Somehow," Hroar mocked. "That's your answer to everything."

"Well, at least I've got _some_ answers."

"Yeah, you're a regular master at figuring out solutions to problems _that you yourself cause in the first place_!"

"At least I make things happen. If it was totally up to you, you'd never have gotten to where you are today, without my help. Come to think on it, you owe it all to me."

"Oh! That's fresh!"

Runa shrugged. "Huff and puff all you like, but that doesn't disprove my argument in the least."

"She has a point," Rusty said, and Hroar glared darts at him.

"Don't even get me started about you, pretty boy," Runa said. "I don't even dare to contemplate your fate if I hadn't pulled your head out of your ass. You'd probably still be deluding yourself about you artistic talents. Or, perhaps even more likely, would be known by now as the most requested boy-whore in the Goldenglow Estate."

"That doesn't sound all bad . . . wait, I _do_ have artistic talents!"

Runa snorted.

"Well what about _you_ then? I remember you at the Bard's College. Guess you discovered your true talent when the alley cats dropped dead listening to you rehearse."

"I'm a _good_ singer!"

Rusty snorted, though rather feebly. He knew he was wrong.

"This is utterly beside the point," interjected Hroar. "We ought to—"

"So like you, Runa," Rusty said. "This is exactly like that time you talked us into taking out that gang of bandits hiding in Fort Amol. _About a dozen_ you said they were—at least _fifty_ turned out to be closer to the truth!"

"It ain't _at all_ like that. . . Well not exactly, anyway. As I recall, told you we could back down at any moment but you'd have none of that. Gleamed like crazy your eyes did, the way you fought that night!"

"Little choice did I have, lest I got chopped to pieces!"

"Oh, don't even start with that."

"Start what? _You're_ the one who—"

"Stop!" Hroar cried. "Stop, this bickering isn't taking us anywhere."

Rusty and Runa glowered at each other a while, then Rusty sighed. "He's right," he said. "Guess we just need to figure out how we could take this thing on without it claiming our heads."

"Look," said Runa. "We won't make a move before we figure out how to do it. And if we can't think up a plan, well, guess we'll just have to drop it. But it won't come down to that. We'll find a way, like we always do."

Her companions still looked far from convinced.

"If necessary, I'll take the heat on myself. Okay? So this can be my thing, with you giving me some help. And I'll still divide the reward evenly. Think on that, reduced responsibility, full pay. Pretty sweet deal. Am I generous or what?" Runa Fair-Shield was nothing if not generous—

"Wait," Hroar said. "I can't believe it; are we really thinking about this?"

"You yourself are always harping 'bout destroying evil," she said. "Well, we'd be wiping out quite a good chunk of evil with one strike."

"Only to have its place taken by someone else."

"It's the frigging Nightingale! You don't just replace a man like that."

"Neither do you just depose a man like that."

"Are we going in circles?"

"Sorry, I just don't see it," said Rusty. "I know you get things done, Runa. Normally you'd have my full trust. But this here—"

"Shh! Listen!"

They came to a sudden halt, as initiated by Hroar. The others were staring at him, standing there all alert like a hunting dog, his ears practically pricked up and hackles raised.

"What?" Runa asked.

"Over there." He waved a hand toward their left.

Sure enough, from where the road veered, obscured by a craggy outcrop, there were voices, raised and hostile as though an altercation was underway. The companions shared looks.

"Well," said Runa with a shrug. "It's where we're headed so might as well see what that's all about." She was, as a rule, reluctant to get involved with other folks' disputes; yet she was also, as another rule, nosey as Oblivion. Those two qualities often waged a bitter war against each other, but what could you do.

They rounded the bend, and stopped in their tracks. One of Runa's eyebrows flew up.

_And what might we have here?_

A dispute underway, for certain. But not the usual sort, far as she was concerned. The chief out-of-the-ordinary thing to catch the eye were the three men standing at the center of the hubbub. Dark skinned, dressed in double-breasted brown tunics with gold-embroidered cuffs upturned to the elbow, baggy and high-waisted beige breeches tucked into heavy boots and held up by wide belts, voluminous desert hoods on their heads. There was supreme dignity in the way they held themselves, calm and heads high. Alik'r Warriors, and a ways from home. Their scimitars remained sheathed at the hip.

The other folks around the three, by contrast, had their weapons decidedly unsheathed, otherwise looking all-around far less dignified. In fact, to say that they looked like a bunch of pigs would have been an unfair underestimation of the presentability of the proud porcine beasts. Four men of whom none would by their appearance be mistaken for anything but bandits, and a woman who might have posed for something else, what with her expensive looking garb and all, but whose face and manner could not help but betray the truth. In addition to those, another man, a young one, stood out to the side, and stood out in general. His clean-cut, doe-eyed, soft-faced mien was a stark contrast to the other five, yet he was definitely affiliated with the inglorious band.

Runa made a face. While the four bandits were not known to her, she knew all she needed to about their type. But that wasn't what prompted the face. No, it was the other two, particularly the woman. Them, she knew.

The woman was a walking sign of trouble. Used to be a part of a group ostentatiously calling themselves the _Bitch Crew_ , a posse of thugs and bullies posing as guards in Riften—answering straight to Maven Black-Briar and acting on her full authority—until they showed her the door. Turned out this one was too savage even for them. Now she seemed to run with men—perhaps a good reason behind that. Anyway, they went back, her and Runa, and it wasn't the good sorta going. The man, or _kid_ , on the other hand, was Maven's latest boy toy—had been for a couple years now, so he must've been good—who she supposed congratulated himself on being her right hand man, though _footstool_ would likely have been a far more accurate description.

What the commotion was all about was anybody's guess, but judging by the calmness of the Redguards when juxtaposed with the hostile comportment of the others, it was a fair guess that the former had done something to upset the latter. Yet also judging by the general nature of the latter, the righteousness of their upset was under serious question.

_Well_ , Runa thought with a shrug, _only one way to find out_.

"What's the point of all the fussing and fighting, my friends?" she called, suddenly drawing everyone's acute attention. She gestured. "I mean, it is a beautiful morning. Can't we all just get along?"

The woman, her expression darkening even further from what it had been, her eyes blazing, took a sharp step forward. "Fair-Shield! You're about the last person I was hoping to see. Get going! This has nothing to do with you." She sported a warhammer bigger than, and almost as ugly as, herself.

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. Not a thing goes on 'round these parts that doesn't have _something_ to with me."

The woman snorted. "Is that so?"

"That's so," said Runa with a nod. "'Tis not in vain that they call Runa Fair-Shield the Guardian of the Rift."

_No one calls you that!_

_Shut up._

"You always were consumed by delusions of grandeur," the woman said, shaking her head.

Runa smirked. "It's nice to see you, Loria. And I don't mean that. So, you're back to working for Maven are ya? Thought even she'd have more sense than to take you back."

Maybe the contortion on the other woman's face was also a grin, though then again maybe it wasn't. "Who says I ever stopped?"

Runa eyed the bandits. They definitely had the look of the types that Maven hired to do her dirty work. The types that would tear out your tongue first and ask questions later. She didn't think she recognized them, but then one ugly bastard looks about the same as the next one. No doubt they were well aware of her though, 'cause who wasn't. In any case, there was little doubt that Maven had her gnarly hands all over this. She then studied the Redguard complement. They did not seem any more moved by the appearance of the new people then they had by the presence of the previous. An odd calm about them. A deathly calm.

"So what's going on here, then?"

"Didn't you hear me? It's none of your business. Now be smart and don't make it that, either."

_Smart, she says? That would be the first._

Runa smiled. "And clearly you didn't hear _me_. It already is that."

"I don't get it," Loria said, confirming her words with the expression on her small, heart-shaped, sharp-featured face. "What's this to you?"

"Well, for one," Runa said in a drawl, "you're in our way."

Loria's small eyes narrowed. "That's it? You'd rather get into a fight than simply go around us?"

Runa glanced at the kid, _Jesper_ if she remembered correctly. A steel sword hung in his hand in a way which screamed all the way to Solitude that he hadn't the faintest idea of how to work the damn thing.

She shrugged. "I'm always ready to go through extra trouble to get off a little bit easier."

Loria sniffed, petulantly sweeping a jet lock of half-long hair off her brow. "You always were a fool."

"Yeah, well. That's a matter of perception. You wanna hear my perception of you? No? Good, here it is. Judging from what I've seen and heard, I'd judge that it's fair to say—and this is no hyperbole—that you're in fact downright. . . _e-vil_." As she stretched the world in a deliberately comical way, she turned her face slightly to her left so that the message was sure to be heard behind her.

Loria sniffed again, even more contemptuously. "How childish. Now that, if anything, is a matter of perception."

"Yeah? And do you agree, _Hroar_?"

And just then the man was standing beside her, helmet strapped on head and his greatsword at the ready. The weapon was ugly as sin but it had seen lots of use over the years, and he made sure it stayed sharp. He called it _Justice_. Runa herself called it _Cut N' Dry_ , but the irony of it was lost on him.

Looking at him, she smiled. The man's expression told her that he had made his assessment of the quality of people they were facing. _I can always rely on you, old friend_.

She then unstrapped her own helmet from her belt, and as she was putting it on, she eyed the posse of bandits. With Hroar staring at them with that rabid-dog way of his, you could feel their growing tension. "Now," she said with a frown. "Did I not have another companion as well?"

Rusty rolled his eyes as Runa looked at him over her shoulder. He then readied his shield and unsheathed his blade, and stepped up to stand on her other side.

"And this here is R—"

Before she got any farther, Rusty said, "You may call me _Tigiargal_ , which in Dunmeri means _He Whose Path Is a Trail of Wailing Widows_." He gave a silly little bow, and grinned. "At your service."

"Yeah," Runa said, and with a quick motion swept out her blades from their scabbards. "What he said." She bent her knees to lower herself into a ready stance.

For a moment longer, Loria eyed the three with smoldering wrath in her eyes. Then her head snapped in the direction of her cronies. "Let's take care of these fools."

"I'll take the ugly one," Rusty said.

Runa shot him a look. "And which one would that—?"

But there was no time for specifications, as the five ugly ones rolled at them. And they rushed to meet the charge.

Hroar was the quickest on his feet, and with a mighty bellow threw himself at the bandit to the extreme left, his blade held horizontally at shoulder height. The bandit looked fully prepared to take the impact with his shield, but just as they were about to make contact, Hroar ducked low and swung at the man's legs instead. The shield could not fall fast enough, and the blade sliced into the bandit's thighs, dropping him screaming to his knees.

Meanwhile Runa rushed at the two men next in line. Both their blades hissed towards her, but she easily parried them with hers, and then nimbly dove from between them. The man coming after them did not look as though he were expecting her to press through the other bandits, and so neither was he prepared for her boot, which slammed into his gut. A sidewise glance revealed to her that Hroar had brought himself back around immediately after his lunge and was now going for the wounded bandit, his blade swishing in a mighty arc, first taking clean off the bandit's arm raised for feeble protection, and then cleaving neatly into his face.

But then something on the other side of her peripheral vision stole her attention, and she swiftly threw herself in that direction. She crouched down on one knee, crossing her blades above her head to take the heavy overhead blow which Loria had no doubt meant for her skull. The warhammer stopped there, the blades' sharp edges biting into the wood, sending some small splinters onto Runa's face.

There might not have been any recognizable words in the growl which erupted from the woman's mouth, but there certainly was plenty of spittle.

"Couldn't have said it better myself."

Runa thrust herself upwards and threw Loria's hammer to the side, and as the weight of it destabilized the woman, tried to slice at her face. Loria was too quick and moved her head out of the way. She then went for a jab at her gut, but somehow the damn woman managed to parry it with the haft. And just as soon Loria pushed the hammer forward, trying to thrust the heavy head into Runa's face.

At such close range, Runa couldn't get her blades between them, but she twisted out of the way so that the hammerhead swung past her skull. However, the haft's impact on her shoulder hurt like a small slice of Oblivion, managing to locate the spot of an old injury. Ironically, if she recalled things correctly, the injury hadn't come from fighting but rather from fucking. To be more exact, drinking and fucking. And come to think of it, fighting probably played some part in it as well.

Nostalgia aside, Runa sharply brought up her right arm, clubbing the side of Loria's head with the pummel of her sword. The woman grunted and pulled herself away from her opponent.

To catch her breath, Runa took a couple of long strides in the opposite direction, then swung back around. Assessing the situation, she saw that the man she'd kicked in the gut had recovered and was going head to head with Hroar. Meanwhile, Rusty was fighting admirably with the two last bandits. He made it look easy, the way he danced with them, and his self-satisfied grin was a stark contrast with their glowers.

Her peripheral vision alerted again, and this time she had to take a split second to find the correct way in which to respond to the admittedly unexpected new information. Finally, she elected to simply quickly move out of the way of the object flying at her. Loria's warhammer.

"Clunky fucking thing!" Loria growled.

"You ain't exactly a graceful lily yourself!" Runa cried with mock offence.

Loria unsheathed a steel sword from her hip and gave it a flourish. "Come on, then!"

And Runa came. She dashed at the bandit, both blades in front of her, and shrieked. Instead of waiting to parry, Loria sprang out to meet her, her own sword cocked for a blow. And though the maneuver looked anything but sensible at first, somehow the woman still managed to find a trajectory for her own weapon which evaded both of Runa's, going for her midriff. Yet, fast as she was, Runa twisted out of its way, shoved it to one side with her left blade while spinning to the same direction. Coming back around, she jabbed.

And her blade sank inch-deep into Loria's torso, right under her left tit.

She drew the sword back, preparing for a follow-up. But that appeared not to be necessary. Loria's blade fell from her hand. She stared at the spot where the sword had gone in, dumbfounded. Blood oozing from the wound. Her wide eyes went to Runa.

"B-bitch," Loria said. And then pitched over, remaining still.

"Well," Runa said through puffs of breath. "That was surprisingly easy." Almost disappointingly so.

She looked into the near distance, seeing the backs of the Redguards as they trooped off in good order and without evident hurry. _Yeah, you're welcome_.

But it wasn't over yet, as evinced by the music of steel from behind her. Hroar was still fighting against the same fellow, who indeed seemed more than a competent fighter, even if clearly on the defense. And Rusty, closest to her, still danced his dance with the two, if perhaps looking just a little bit less arrogantly confident about it. Still, you just had to admire the flawless technique of the man, the flow, the grace and brutality mixing in perfect harmony. Truly, _dance_ was the best way to describe it, and didn't even come off as pretentious as it often did when used to describe the gentle art of trying to sink sharpened metal into another person's flesh.

_I'll never admit it to your face, friend, but you truly are an artist_.

Rusty seemed to have noticed her looking. "And this is the moment in our show," he said, "where audience participation would be appreciated."

With a shrug, Runa exploded into motion. She gave a good scream to alert the other fellow of her coming. Runa Fair-Shield, after all, almost never stabbed anyone in the back. As the bandit spun to receive her, she suddenly dug her heels in and stopped a few paces from him. The man looked baffled.

"Well?" she said. "What are you waiting for?"

He took the hint and lunged at her. She used her left blade to parry his attacks. Once. Twice. Trice. Then, with the right blade, she plunged out and stabbed him below the sternum, and the tip tore through the links of the chain mail. The sword went in and then out. She then finished with a showy pirouette and slashed his face open, and down he went.

She pressed the tips of her blades into the hard ground and leaned against them, observing Rusty's still ongoing fight. It looked considerably easier now that there was only one opponent. " _Graceful_ definitely has its merits," she said, "but it's got nothing on _efficient_."

"Whatever you say, Runa," Rusty said. His manner was still as relaxed as ever. He didn't even sweat! He served the bandit a couple pronouncedly aggressive blows, really seeming to destabilize his defense, and then stopped, letting his blade drop down to his side.

The bandit looked bemused.

"How committed are you to this?" Rusty asked him. "I've got no beef with you. You can already see the outcome, I'm sure. So, do you want to die over this or will you just run?"

The bandit still looked unsure of what to do with this.

Rusty waved his blade at him " _Well_!?"

The bandit then found his feet, rushing off without a backwards glance.

Rusty sheathed his sword, unbloodied. "That's that I guess." His eyes went past Runa. "Well I never. Won't you look at that."

Runa's brows went up at the sight. There was Hroar, finishing off his opponent. So to speak. The said opponent was lying, with his limbs spayed, on the ground, while the big guy kept pounding in his already bashed-in head with the pummel of his sword. The thing was covered in gore, as was the large fist squeezing it, and a great deal of splattered blood tarnished Hroar's rage-contorted face as well.

She strode over. "Hroar! Hroar! Don't you think he's about done?" As Hroar looked up at her like a little boy caught raiding the pastry shop—except, well, far more brutal—she shook her head. "Sheesh, man, what got into you?"

He stared at her, breathing heavily. "He begged me to spare his life."

"We can certainly see what your answer was. Gotta say—I never thought you cruel."

Pause. "I was going to let him live."

"Well, it seems you changed the hell out of your mind!"

Another pause. "I recognized him."

"Is that how you treat a familiar face? 'Cause I'd hate to see—"

"Enough with the lip!"

Runa's mouth snapped shut at the sudden bark. Truth be told, her friend looked like he might have torn the bandit's face to ribbons with his bare teeth.

Immediately after, he looked ashamed at his outburst. He gave the now faceless bandit a bitter scowl. "Trust me. He was scum! The world is now a slightly better place."

"Whatever did he _do_?"

"You don't wanna know. And I don't want to talk about it." He stood, dusting his knees, as if _that_ would made any difference.

Rusty shook his head down at the mauled bandit. "He ain't pretty no more."

Runa frowned at him, but elected to say nothing. She shrugged. "Guess that was that. Kinda disappointing, really. Especially her—" As she motioned towards where she'd left Loria, she frowned. "Where'd she go?" The woman's body was gone, only a bloodstain on the ground remaining. Surely the scavengers weren't this quick—that is, if they even wanted the foul bitch.

"She ran." All heads then turned toward the last, largely forgotten, remaining member of the bandit party. Jesper. He made a face, and spat, "Like a coward!"

Runa grinned, approaching. "And you're still here. Brave boy, aintcha? _Jesper_ , wasn't it?"

He upturned his chin, the poofy blond hair on top of his head blown by the slight breeze, and stared at her defiantly.

"You're gonna fight me now?" she asked.

Jesper shakily raised his sword.

"Can you even use that?" She swatted at it swiftly with her own blade, and it came loose from his fingers and clattered off to the side. "I thought so."

"I'm not afraid to die," he said.

"Is that so?" Runa said, continuing to slowly advance on him. He backed up. "Don't look like that to me."

Soon Jesper came to a reluctant halt, as the bole of the tree he backed into proved an unyielding obstacle.

Runa stopped right in front of the young man, studying him. "What business does someone like you have in all this? All just because of Maven? Does the old lass really work such spectacular magic in the sheets? Or, what, do you actually _love_ her?" At the flicker of emotion on his face, her eyes went wide. "You do, don't you! And you really imagine that she loves you back? I mean, honestly. I doubt she even loves her own children!" She shook her head. "She's using you, Jesper. That's all. That's what she does to people. There's no love in that crone's black, shriveled heart."

The look in Jesper's eyes turned even harder. Though it was the brittle sort of hard. There were faded bruises about one eye. Either, Runa thought, he'd caught the wrong end of one of Maven's hissy fits, or then the woman simply drew some modicum of joy from beating the dumb pup. Either was just as distinct a possibility in her mind.

_Poor damn fool._

She pressed closer. "Do yourself a favor. Get away from her while you can. A cute lad like you? You should trade up." She felt distinctly how some devil got ahold of her again. "So you like older women. Here's one. Though not as old as her of course, maybe a hundred or so less. Whaddaya say?" Runa sheathed one blade, then gently caught his face in one hand. Soft skin. A kid. She leaned in, as if for a kiss. Then stopped. "Nah," she said. "You're too innocent. Even for me." She let go, patted the face softly. "Run along now. Just think on what I said."

As she backed up a couple steps, Jesper eyed her with wary hostility. Then took off.

As he leaned down to pick up his blade, Runa said, "Leave it."

He did as told, and, with another scowl, started running.

Runa went over to pick the sword up.

"Expecting to fetch a good price for that?" asked Rusty.

Runa snorted. "Just made sure he doesn't cut himself."

"Aww. You're so kind."

She tossed the thing away. "Damn straight."

He looked around. "Guess we'll never know what this was about."

"Guess not. Those desert warriors simply walked off! No thank yous or nothing."

"How rude. We could probably still catch up with them and ask for an explanation, though."

"Nah. Didn't seem like talkative types. Maybe that had something to do with the whole thing."

"That the bandits were simply pissy because the Redguards refused to answer their questions?"

She shrugged. "You know how they are."

"They weren't just bandits, though, were they? Maven Black-Briar had something to do with this."

"It's the Rift. She's got something to do with most things."

"True, that," Rusty admitted. "Maybe we _should_ kill her."

"After the Nightingale, sure. After that, sky's the limit. Maybe the Emperor next?"

"They would all deserve it!"

Runa and Rusty turned to Hroar at the man's grated words. He was cleaning the blood off his face with a kerchief. Nay, not a kerchief, a piece of cloth he'd torn off the sleeve of his adversary's shirt.

"No doubt," Runa said. "Sad thing is, took we upon ourselves to wipe out every bastard deserved to die, there'd be no end to our work."

Hroar regarded her soberly. "Sounds like a worthwhile life to me."

Rusty sighed. "Enough of this. You're starting to bring my mood down. And it was just improving with all the excitement and all."

Hroar sniffed at the other man. The two had always had very different approaches to the business.

"Fine," said Runa, finally sheathing her blades. "Time we be on anyhow. We ain't got all day."

"Where are you taking us anyway?" asked Rusty.

"You'll see."

He looked wary. "I'm not gonna like it, am I?"

"Don't worry, nothing bad."

He looked skeptical.

"Okay, nothing _that_ bad."

Then he sighed in surrender. "Fine, Runa. You're the one with the plan. . . I take it."

"Oh, yeah. For sure." _A plan? Sure, soon enough_.

They collected their horses and carried on eastward. The sun crept up higher, and the air grew hotter. Runa was thirsty already. She'd kill for an ale, but had intentionally not taken any to go, only water. The couple that she'd broken her fast with would have to do until later. After all, you needed some signposts of encouragement on your journey, she'd reasoned. It was starting to feel like a big mistake.


	7. The Only Path

"Bashnag."

Bashnag braced himself. He had already grown used to the silence, which had blessedly reigned between him and the Nightingale ever since their encounter with Jagar until now, having just passed the farm located by the outer bailey of Solitude. The music of the songbirds and the gentle melody of the spring breeze in the young foliage had made him feel almost good, comforting as nature was in its predicable simplicity. Now he felt his gut tightening again.

"Yes, sir?"

"Have I, perchance, ever expounded to you the account of how the Dunmer managed to finally chase out the Argonian invaders from Morrowind?"

 _No, and can we please keep it that way_. "No, sir."

"Excellent! Now, that gives us something to talk about it, then, lest the silence of our journey grow tiresome."

 _Wouldn't want that now would we_. Bashnag grunted.

"And, I will add, there is a pertinent lesson within the account as well; one elucidating rather well, I believe, the reasons for my mistrust of young master Jagar."

_Just get on with it, please!_

"It was through learning from their enemy, first and foremost, that the Dunmer finally gained the upper hand." As always, the man launched directly into lecture mode. People of books, Bashnag had found, were often like that. "Well, at first, of course, they needed to unite the great houses, to pool their resources; and in order to do that, hatchets needed burying. But necessity and desperation, as so often, proved the greatest teachers. Though obviously that wasn't enough. They also needed to modify their way of warfare. Wisely, they decided to take a page from the Argonians' book. The military force they put together, detached from any one house, was one relying heavily on guerilla warfare, a decidedly Argonian approach. Through many clever tactics, one of the cleverest ones being the magical poisoning the waters of the southern region—an essential element for their enemy—they slowly but surely ate away the Argonian resolve. As simple as that may sound, over time, that was all it took to regain their lands."

Bashnag grunted. _A short but uninspiring_ _stor—_

"That's not the lesson, however."

 _Dang_. "No sir?"

"Not by a long shot. See, as smart as the Dunmer had been thus far, here is where they stopped being so. That military force that they used to win their freedom again? Disbanded, effective immediately. And just like that, it was as if the truce and alliance that had bound the houses together had never been, and they were right back to their old rivalry—even worse than before! And it's no surprise that everyone did their best to forget all about the one thing that they had shared—the guerilla army.

"And so what did that leave them with? Adrift, traumatized soldiers, suddenly abandoned and left to their own devices, denied any of the glory which they had thought was waiting for them. People who for a long time had known nothing but killing, now on their own, betrayed, embittered. They soon became a social detriment all across the land. Drug and alcohol abuse, rampant delinquency, demented cults, explosive growth in organized crime—you name it. And just recently, I have heard, a new radical cult promising its adherents power beyond measure, glorifying death and violence, has been rapidly growing— built in some sense on the smoldering ruins of that abandoned army, but now drawing in even those who had little to nothing to do with the war. All this because the Dunmer wanted to sweep some inconvenient problems under the rug. Well, sometimes, under the rug, the problems just _grow_." He chuckled.

Bashnag dared hope the man was done.

"And so what is the lesson? Perhaps that in addition to turning your back on your enemy, you should doubly not turn it on your allies? Well, sure, ideally. But more importantly: if you _are_ going to turn you back on them, make sure that they are not able to get you back for that later on."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, our young friend? Not only would I never turn my back on him, I would not let him get in a position where such a thing would matter. He's untrustworthy, it's in his nature. Too erratic, too impulsive. Too prone to follow his instinct for adventure. He does not know where he stands, and so neither can anyone else. That is dangerous. And not the good kind of dangerous."

"Yes, si—"

"Yet, we most assuredly should not sweep him under the rug. We must keep an eye on him." Mostly to himself, the Nightingale muttered, "I'm glad that Sybille is there to keep watch on him. Who knows what he might end up getting up to otherwise."

Suddenly the man seemed abstracted, and Bashnag felt a strange sensation he did not at first recognize as concern. But that's what it was. It was so unlike the Nightingale, always so poised and composed, that he was not sure he'd ever seen him like that.

That cloud, however, seemed to pass as quickly as it had come. "No matter. There are always things like that to consider. But rest assured, our operation is going very smoothly at the moment. We'll shortly have Cyrodiil covered. The Elder Council should soon give us no trouble, and that means the Emperor will give us no trouble. And the Empire must only be the beginning!" He smiled, and the smile sent chills down Bashnag's spine. "Soon it shall be us who _de facto_ rule Tamriel. Think on that, old friend!"

Bashnag did, and the found the thought horrifying beyond compare. "Yes, sir. Very good, sir."

"Very good indeed." The Nightingale eyed his bodyguard, a suggestion of a frown on his brow. "Now, I don't mean to alarm you. . ."

Bashnag felt the jab of alarm.

"It's nothing big, I assure you. But it has just come to my attention that a bounty has been put upon my head. And the job has been accepted by an individual with both remarkable resolve and an impressive track record." He smiled, gave a shrug. "Anyway. Nothing to be upset by overmuch—just keep on the lookout, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

There was another stretch of silence, yet one Bashnag found he could not enjoy. A strange emotion ignited within him at the Nightingale's words, and it took him a moment to identify it. Then he realized: he was worried. The prospect of someone of capability coming after his charge gave him an acute sense of consternation. And it wasn't over his own job in trying to prevent it, or even fear that his abilities would be put to the test: in truth, he cared little for himself. No, it was on the Nightingale's behalf that he was concerned. Personally, he could not have cared less about the prospect of what his boss referred to as their "operation," in fact the whole thing made him feel increasingly uneasy and so he wouldn't have minded seeing it all go down. But it was the man himself that he worried about . . . in truth, he realized, _cared_ about.

_Oh dear. So very unprofessional of me._

"What bothers you, Bashnag? I thought I told you not to worry."

"It's nothin' sir. Just, I am. . ." _Tired_ , he almost said. "It's nothin'."

_Impressive track record? I wonder what that means._

* * *

"We get it, Runa. There's a great amount of formidable folk that you've killed when so dead drunk that you were barely to walk. Very impressive. You can stop now."

"That's not the point!" Runa cried. She waved a petulant hand to chase away a horsefly. They were riding now, albeit at a lackadaisical pace, having just crossed the Treva River.

"What's the point, then?" asked Rusty.

"The point is," she explained, "that it's hardly going to jeopardize our mission if we simply stop at Ivarstead to get a few of bottles of ale to go with us. I mean, it's getting hotter by the minute and I'm getting damn thirsty. Maybe a bottle of two of wine, too, now that I think of it."

"I never said we couldn't go. And neither did Hroar. Did you, Hroar?"

The other man shook his head.

"See? You're the one who started coming up with excuses without anyone even arguing."

"Oh, I see! Putting it all on me, now, are you? Some friend you are! And don't roll your eyes at me!"

Rusty sighed. "I think we should drop by at Ivarstead to get some lubrication. You clearly need it."

"I don't need nothin'! _You_ need. . . I dunno, _something_. A spanking, maybe."

He sighed again. "Very good, Runa."

"Don't you dare verygood me!"

"Can we get real here for a moment?" asked Hroar.

"Rusty's getting _real_ irritating—"

"Drop it, Runa. I've got a serious question for you."

Suddenly she had one of those uncomfortable moments when she felt that she could see her own conduct in an accurate light, and felt a pang of shame. Forgoing drink today really had been a bad call! She wouldn't say anything, though. "Alright. Ask away." Come to think on it, when _was_ the last time she'd gone stone sober for a considerable stretch of time?

"Where are we headed in the first place?"

She frowned. "Didn't I tell you?"

"You haven't said anything," said Rusty.

"No? Well, then I must have a good reason to withhold such information."

"I can't imagine what that could have been."

"And that's your problem. _Imagination_ , you see, is a very integral part of—"

"Won't you two stop that!" Hroar snapped. "Look, it shouldn't be too difficult to just let us know where we're going, not to mention too much for us to ask."

"Alright, fine. Well, you'll be pleased to hear that we start our adventure with a little espionage mission."

"I can't imagine," Rusty said, "why that would please anyone."

Runa bit back a remark. "Be that as it may," she said with sage patience, "it's an important place to start."

"Who're we gonna spy on?" asked Hroar.

"We're going to go check out Helgen. It is a well-known hideout of the Nightingale. We'll go and see what we see. Who knows, maybe we'll even resort to a bit of infiltration—" Her mouth snapped shut. She had not really intended to say the last bit out loud just yet.

"Not a chance!" Rusty cried. "I'm not getting myself killed!"

"Who said anything about you?"

"Hroar then? I'm sure you weren't planning to volunteer?"

Hroar did not look too delighted, either.

"As a matter of fact—" Runa started. _No, in fact I had no intention to_. "Yeah, you're right. Anyway, probably won't be necessary. We'll just go and snoop around a bit."

Hroar seemed to consider that for a moment, then gave a nod. "That seems smart."

"Of course it does."

And so it did.

And no more was said about that.

* * *

"Where are we headed, sir?"

Bashnag nearly flinched again. The question had simply slipped out of his mouth without his volition.

The Nightingale himself showed a faint sign of surprise. He did not, however, seem to mind Bashing asking. He smiled. "Now, there's a bit of catch regarding that."

"Is there?"

"Indeed there is. See, you and I, are going to need to—"

"Well met, gentlemen."

Now Bashnag really did flinch, but his immediate consolation came from the fact that the flinch lasted for no longer than a split second, and was then in effect drowned out by the reaction which followed directly after: that of his whipping out the battle axe strapped to his back. "Get back, sir!"

The three figures standing right in front of them—they had seemed to appear out of thin air!—did not show any sign of trepidation over Bashnag's aggressive reaction. Indeed, the one standing the closest, —a female, the two others being male—seemed to chuckle a bit. Though it was difficult to say, covered as she was, as were her companions, in a black cloak concealing her almost completely. A patch of pale skin showed underneath the large cowl, bloodless lips curled in a humorless smile. Much like Sybille, though this one seemed considerably younger somehow.

"Be at ease, Bashnag," the Nightingale said with a warding hand. "There is no need for that."

"I apologize," said the woman, giving a small bow. "We did not mean to alarm."

"By no means. We aren't alarmed. My bodyguard is simply _alerted_. And a good thing—I would not expect any less of him. Isn't that right, Bashnag?"

His heart approaching regular tempo again, Bashnag reluctantly resheathed his axe. "Yes, sir."

"Very good, master," said the woman.

_Master?_

Calm again, Bashnag took a more careful look at the newcomers, and then struggled against curling his lip as he understood what he was looking at. Vampires! There was nothing in the world he abhorred more than the creatures. In daylight, they had to cover themselves up to avoid getting burned by the sun.

"Now," the female vampire said, "if you would not mind it, master, we would appreciate it if we could be going. You are being . . . awaited."

 _Awaited?_ They were not supposed to be going with these creatures, were they? Bashnag felt a budding panic brew inside of him.

"Splendid. By all means, let us make haste. Bashnag?"

Past the constriction in his throat, Bashnag said, "Yes sir?"

"Alas, this is the part where we must part ways for now."

"Sir?"

"I am afraid where I am going you cannot follow. Please, do not take this personally!"

 _I don't understand_. "Sir, I. . ."

"No, no. Do not worry on my account." He smiled at the spawns of demonic filth. "I assure you that I'm in quite good company."

"Not many," the woman agreed, inclining her head, "would dare to set themselves against us. Although, if you don't mind me adding, our powers are nothing compared with yours . . . master."

It creeped Bashnag out to no end the way she kept saying the word. He had realized that the Nightingale's operation went beyond criminals, thieves, assassins, and corrupt imperial officers, but facing the reality of its even darker aspects was never a pleasant experience. His boss, in effect, was known as _master_ by blood-drinking demons!

The Nightingale smiled at the fiend. "You flatter me." As he took a look at Bashnag and saw the expression on his face, he reached up and set a hand on his shoulder. "Do not be troubled, friend. There is an important mission for you as well."

"There is?"

"Quite." He fished something out of his breast pocket. A sealed envelope. "You must deliver this for me. It is rather vital."

Bashnag looked at the envelope with hesitation for a heartbeat, then took it. "Yes, sir. Where do you need it delivered?"

"You must go to Helgen. Give it to the person in charge there. Make sure—insist if you must—that it goes personally into his hand. They know you well, so that should not be a problem. Just, with as many people working for me as I do, it always pays to be careful."

Bashnag hesitated again. "Helgen, sir? It's rather far."

"Should take you no time by horse."

"A horse—?"

And just then—again, seemingly from out of nowhere—a horse walked out from behind Bashnag's back. His heart leapt, but that was all. It was a sleek, jet-black horse, certainly tall and muscular enough to carry a bulky Orsimer. Bashnag did ride, though had some trouble being comfortable around horses, seeming as they did to get nervous around him.

"No worries," the Nightingale said, "he's a faithful one, and will give you no trouble. In fact, you barely need tell him what to do. He knows the way, and will take you there quite swiftly."

"Yes, sir." He felt anything but reassured, but to hide it he promptly swung himself into the saddle. The horse barely shifted, and certainly showed no sign of nervousness. He tentatively patted its neck.

The Nightingale smiled. "See. Already fast friends. Now, gods' speed, Bashnag." That seemed an out-of-place bidding in his mouth, as the man hardly revered the gods. "Make sure they treat you as you deserve to be treated at Helgen, eh?"

"Yes, sir. And what do I do after that?"

"I imagine it is best you get some rest. We shall rendezvous, shall we say at noon tomorrow, by Nilheim?"

"Sounds good, sir." It did not sound very good to him at all.

"Excellent. See you there then. Farewell!" the Nightingale accentuated his word by slapping the horse's rump. "To Helgen, boy!"

And the horse was on its way, at a steady trot. Bashnag really did not feel that he needed to do anything to control the ride. Nothing that he could have done. He looked behind once more, and the Nightingale raised his hand in a wave. The female vampire did so as well, and to Bashnag the gesture was pure mockery. He faced ahead again, and closed his eyes. Blotting out the laughter that he heard in the back of his head.

* * *

"And it took Constance a surprisingly long time to find the rat, and by the time she did it reeked like a Daedroth's breath. Once she found out who had hidden it, I swear, Samuel couldn't sit for a week! You'd swear Grelod had come back from the dead." Runa laughed. "Oh, I wouldn't let him hear the end of that!"

"Yeah," Hroar said. "I remember that." He even cracked a smile, that old sour-puss. "It was right before you left."

"Was it? Oh yeah, guess it must have been. Gods, it doesn't feel like it was that long ago, does it?"

"No," he said. "It doesn't." He shook his head, suddenly abstracted. "It really doesn't"

"Sorry to interrupt your fond reminiscences," said Rusty, "but I believe that something once again requires out attention."

With a pang of irritation, Runa looked ahead to where Rusty was pointing. "Oh my," she said. "What have we here? Guess we know now where those three went, huh?"

This was, again, something different. There was a pass which cut between the Jerall Mountains and the Throat of the World and led directly to Helgen, and they were just approaching it. Something, however, now stood between them and the entrance. There were tents of varying sizes spread about, interspersed with cook-fires, and with people. The make of the tents was clearly not local, and the brazen finials adorning the tops of the tent poles was an altogether alien embellishment to the Nordic eye.

It was the people, however, who sealed the impression. Redguards dressed in the same fashion as the men they'd encountered before. Now that the arrival of the three had been widely noticed, the eyes of those people turned to them. There was no visible aggression, curved weapons staying put in their scabbards, and yet Runa was struck with the unmistakable feeling that they were not welcome.

"What are so many Alik'r warriors doing in Skyrim?" she wondered.

"Can't think of a single reason," said Rusty.

"Well," Runa said after a moment's ogling back and forth, and spurred Frost, "only one way to find out." She thought she might have heard Rusty's hissing behind her but paid it no mind.

A handful of the warriors raised up to meet her, but they were showing the same sort of insouciance as had the other three fellows earlier. Certainly nothing in the comportment said they viewed her as any kind of threat. Runa drew rein. Then one man stepped forth.

"Greetings, madam. How may we help you?"

She studied the man, then the encampment. "Getting comfortable are ya?"

The man smiled. It was a nice smile. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning."

"You're a long way from home, warrior."

"In Alik'r we say, 'home is where the hearth is.'" He gestured at the cook fires. "And we always carry ours with us."

"Cute," Runa said. "And why, if I may ask, have you brought yours all the way to Skyrim?"

"Of course you may ask."

"And I take it you have no intention of answering me."

Another nice smile. "I'm afraid I am not at liberty to speak any more of the matter."

"Does anyone here possess such liberty?"

"What business we have here is our business. It does not concern outsiders."

"I see. And yet, from where I look at it, I'm already concerned. As in, here we are, my companions and I, and we would like to pass through your camp. You see, you might not have noticed this, but there's an awful convenient mountain pass right behind your back and you're, well, kinda blocking the way."

"We are well aware of this. And you can be assured that this is no coincidence."

"Uh-huh. Well, that don't change the fact that we need to pass though that way."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible at this time."

"I beg to differ."

"Begging, I'm afraid, is not going to help, either."

Despite that nice smile of his, Runa was really starting to grow tired of the man's smugly self-assured composure. "Look here—"

"Runa," said Rusty, his horse now next to hers. "It isn't worth it. It's not as if this is the only path. We can simply travel north and go around the Throat. It won't take us that much longer."

"Uh-uh," said Runa, and she swung off the saddle. Some of those warriors now bristled, though the smiling one waved at them appeasingly. Runa strode to him. "Take me to your leader."

His brows rose. "Pardon me?"

"Surely there's someone here I can talk to who I can reason with."

The warriors shared looks, then some words in a language Runa did not recognize. Could it have been Yoku? Then the smiling warrior nodded at her. "Because of your boldness I shall grant you this. But do not think you'll be able to persuade him any more than you can us."

"That remains to be seen," she said as she walked after the man. In truth, she had few hopes of such a thing, but then Runa Fair-Shield was nothing if not persistent.

 _Foolishly stubborn, I believe, is the term you're looking for_.

"I'm not listening to you," she muttered under her breath.

They took her to a large tent off to the farther corner of the encampment, next to where stood the last remains of an abandoned cabin, which had slowly rotting away for the last couple of decades. Runa actually remembered spending a few sodden nights there, too bushed to find a proper sleeping place. It was still good enough for that, provided it did not rain.

"Wait here," said the Redguard. He walked in through the tent flaps, and after trading some words in what might have been Yoku with someone inside, popped back out. He gestured. "Go on in."

"Much obliged."

The air in the tent was hot, similarly to the Khajiit yurt, but the smells were different. Incense, dry dung fuel burned in the large stove, man-sweat. Intoxicating in its own way. Large, luxurious wool carpets of elaborate design covered the floor. Bare furnishing, a couple of low tables with sitting cushions, bedrolls at the back.

By one of the tables, three men stood talking in that language of theirs. These differed a little from the other men, dressed in flowing hooded robes and sandals. Clearly, judging by the clothing and the way they conducted themselves, they were of a slightly higher caliber. They went on talking a moment longer, disregarding the stranger. Then one of the men glanced Runa's way, said something to the others, who then also glanced at her.

"Hiya," she said, raising her chin in greeting.

Without reply, the men spoke for a second more, and then two of them disengaged, sailing past Runa without affording her another regard.

"Nice to meet you too," she called after them.

The third man walked over to stand in front of her, inclined his head. "Welcome. And I beg your pardon for making you wait."

"Don't mention it," said Runa. She then took a few seconds to regard the man. And found herself moderately impressed.

He had the bearings of a man of war, with his tall, muscular frame, and his scarred countenance; and yet the serene grace of his presence, not to mention his garb, seemed to point elsewhere. Like a battlemage, just more . . . _holy_ , or something. The almost black eyes set into his pleasant, even features were quite easy to look into; and in fact it was looking _away_ that turned out to be the hard part.

Before she found herself a little _too_ impressed, Runa gave the man a grin. She stuck out her hand. "Well met. Name's Runa Fair-Shield."

The man looked at the hand for a heartbeat, seeming a touch perplexed. Then he gingerly took it, and put his lips to the back of it. It wasn't exactly clean. "Pleased to meet you," he said. "Mine is Kamid at-Kalad. At your service."

"Well," Runa said, retreating the hand while resisting the instinct to wipe it. Not that the kiss had been wet. "Aren't you a regular snake charmer."

The man's brow furrowed. "Was that . . . a _slur_?"

"What? No, no. I didn't . . . no!"

The man tilted his head back and barked—no _crooned_ —a laugh. "I'm only joking," he said. "Do not be alarmed."

"Oh," Runa said. "I see." Then felt rather unusual hotness about her cheeks. _It's the dehydration_. "Anyway. So, you, like the other ones you were with, are some sort of a . . . priest?"

" _Warrior_ -Priest," the man corrected, all serenity again.

"I see. Well that does put a different sorta zing to it."

He gave a nod. "In a manner of speaking, yes."

He smiled. And if the tepid word 'nice' had sufficed to describe the smile of the fellow outside, then this one could called downright disarming. And suddenly Runa was at risk of being excessively impressed again.

"Anyway," she said. "I did not come here to exchange pleasantries."

"Ah, but I've not yet even begun with mine," he said. All smooth tongues, this one.

 _Oh? I'm all ears!_ Runa cleared her throat. "There was something I came here to talk about."

"Yes, so Malumah informed me. Said you showed most persistent adamancy. I can respect that, though I assure you that in normal circumstances an outsider would hardly ever stand so close to me as you now do. However." And he gave that smile again. "Looking at you now, I'm suddenly glad of this exception."

 _Stop that!_ "That's nice. Here's the thing, though—"

"Would you join me over tea? It is our custom—"

 _Tea?_ "Uh, I'm fine; that doesn't—"

"—to accompany negotiations with some tea and rum."

 _Rum?_ "—in fact sound bad at all."

He smiled. "Very good."

* * *

Again and again, as Bashnag rode—if indeed such a word could be used of the act of simply sitting on the back of a horse that seemed to know exactly what it was doing—the image of the Nightingale kept returning to his mind. _Do not worry_ , the man had said; and yet, with every increasing pace that he put between himself and his boss, the more worried Bashnag grew. It wasn't simply the disquiet itself, it was the fact that he _did_ worry, which vexed him. All these years, the rationale that he'd given himself for doing what he did had been a matter of sheer pragmatic professionalism: that he did what he did because he was good at it. That indeed it was the only thing he was truly any good at. But now it seemed that he truly had come to care for his charge. A bond had formed between the two, and never before until now had he even stopped to consider it. How could something like that grow without his notice? Had he truly any rein over his own emotional landscape?

A scathing cackle echoed in the back of his mind. _This is exactly what your father most reviled in you. Your abhorrent_ tendencies _! An affront to the natural order of things!_

Bashnag bit his teeth together, shutting out the voice in his head.

 _You think me your enemy! I must say, rarely has such a blind fool been birthed among the blind fools who are my children! You_ wallow _in your weakness! And you turn away my gift, that of relieving you of it!_

"I'm not listening to you," he growled.

Laughter.

By and large, people envisioned gods to be benevolent, powerful entities who were always watching over them, meting out justice, passing their blessings unto just causes. But one could only retain such delusions while one remained ignorant of the myriad horrors the world held. It was a blessed innocence of sorts, if an irrevocably stupid-minded kind. But once one had seen enough, the blessing was permanently broken, and one could go back to hiding behind such comforting ignorance no longer. Unless, of course, one was utterly self-centered and callous. Which, given what he knew and what he'd seen, would have not surprised Bashnag one bit.

Truly, was not Malacath the perfect god for such a world?

* * *

"In this world," Kamid at-Kalad said, holding, as was Runa, the rum tumbler at eye level, "where nothing is given for free, I make you this offering."

 _Awfully formal._ Runa raised the glass. "Appreciated. Cheers!" And she downed the drink with one gulp, then gave a wincing _ahh_. "A nice bite."

He looked at her, bemused. "I was making the traditional toast. And you're supposed to sip it little by little with your tea."

"Oh. Sorry. Guess you'll need to pour me another one."

The smile he flashed at her then was more one of indulgence, but he poured her another glass nonetheless. "On second thought, might be best we skip the formalities. My apologies, I forget I am talking to someone not accustomed to our ways."

"None at all," said Runa, taking a careful sip. The stuff really was tasty. "But you're probably right. I'm not a formal sort of gal."

"As I gathered. Now." He set the tumbler down in front of himself. "What can I do for you?"

"If I tell you, will you do it?"

"That depends, of course. But I can try."

"First tell me: why are you folks here to begin with?"

"We are on a search-mission."

Runa raised a brow. Honestly, she'd fully expected him to hide behind a wall of silence as the other man had done. "What are you searching for?"

"Not _what_. _Whom_. I am here looking for someone."

Runa shrugged. "I'm someone."

"Someone else. Someone more . . . _male_."

"Sorry to hear I'm not to your tastes. Must be a special sort of man."

Ignoring her innuendo, Kamid steepled his hands on the table, affording her a solemn regard. At the narrow table, their faces were close enough for her to feel his heat, smell the sweetness in his breath. "This man is a traitor of the worst kind. And long has he been hiding from the hand of justice. Now we are told that he has been here in Skyrim all along. And that is why we are here." Then he leaned back as though sitting in a chair, letting Runa surreptitiously release the breath she realized she'd been holding. "But suffice it to say at this point that he has little relevance to your story."

"Speaking of my story," she said, "there's been, shall we say, a needless holdup in the narrative."

"And what do you mean by this?"

"You people," Runa said. "You're in the way."

"Ah. So you seek passage through the mountain pass."

"Indeed we do."

"Then I am sorry. This negotiation just hit a wall. I'm afraid none shall pass."

"I beg to differ."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, what's the point? We ain't the man you're looking for. None of us have the necessary commitment to be a traitor. And he's sure not hiding in our satchels, either. Be my guest and search."

"Nevertheless."

"Nevertheless what?"

"The passage remains closed at this time."

Runa puffed. "You're a stubborn bunch, aren't you? Like those three fellows earlier, wouldn't say a word to Loria and her thugs."

"I'm sorry, what are you talking about now?"

"Ran into some of you earlier. Had to get our hands bloody, too."

"Ah. So it was you and your men. I heard that some good people relieved a minor inconvenience some of us were faced with earlier."

"You could say that."

He inclined his head. "You have my deepest gratitude."

"That's nice. So . . . may we pass?"

"No."

 _Damn._ Runa picked up the tea cup. The stuff was vaguely sweet, but lacking in substance. Tossing the rum in might help, or then simply skipping the tea altogether. She then sipped at the rum, and started to see the rationale behind the combination. _Focus, now!_ There had to be something she could do to persuade him.

An idea dawned, then, yet she was hesitant. He seemed considerably less amiable, less smiley, now that he'd found out what she was after. Still . . .

"I am sorry that you came here in vain," he said, then in turn went on to sip his tea.

Runa decided to make her move then, and her hand slipped under the table. _Say what you want about Runa Fair-Shield, but don't say she ain't quick with her hands._

The expression on the face of Kamid at-Kalad shifted a little, a ghost of a frown. He carefully set the cup down. "And what, exactly, is it that you think that you're doing?"

"Why," Runa said, "it appears as if I'm holding your cock in my hand. Convenient, these dresses you wear." _And no undergarment. I can see that you like to live dangerously_.

"I see," he replied. "And what is it that you expect to achieve with this?"

Her lip quirked. "Feels to me as though I'm achieving it as we speak."

He nodded. "Indeed."

"Hmm, and once more some evidence that what they say about you people ain't _all_ talk."

"I assure you, that particular feature is less a matter of race and more a personal endowment granted to me by the gods"

She raised one eyebrow. "Praise the gods, then."

After a few heartbeats, Kamid suddenly swept the table from between them, cups and tumblers flying. He stood, and so did Runa. And as he advanced on her, towering and darkened in aspect, Runa instinctively backed away.

She gazed down at his weapon cleaving the front of his robes, fully battle-ready. An impressive sight. As he kept coming closer, she reached down again to cup her hand around its base.

Kamid softly but adamantly pushed Runa against the tent's canvas wall, his hand shooting out and seizing a firm hold of her chin. "I don't suppose you like it rough by any chance?" he asked.

Without letting go with the other hand, she then grabbed the man's chin just as hard as he had. "Just so happens to be my specialty."

They shared a grin.

Then they shared something more.

* * *

Runa tramped down to where her companions were waiting, adjusting her weapons belt. "Course's clear," she said. "Let's get on our horses and go, they're letting us through."

Hroar frowned deep. "How'd you . . ."

Even behind her back, Runa could feel the look that Rusty gave the other man.

"What?" Hroar said.

All around, men were sharing knowing looks. Runa paid them no heed. As far as she was concerned, one method of negotiating was as good as the other. All the better if getting things done happened to shake hands with some good old-fashioned fun.

* * *

The chief problem with letting the horse do all the work was that it gave Bashnag ample time to think—an activity which, in normal circumstances, he avoided not unlike the plague. Nevertheless, he now found that he could not stop himself.

Once long ago, it was said, the ancestors of the Orsimer had been a group of Aldmer, followers of Trinimac, the strongest of the Aedra and the vanquisher of Lorkhan. But then the Daedric Prince Boethiah had defeated Trinimac in a battle and transformed him into Malacath, concurrently giving birth to the creatures known derisively by the rest of the world as Orcs. One version went that Boethiah had gone on to devour Trinimac, in effect _shitting_ out Malacath. Whatever the exact method of his birth, henceforth Malacath had served as the patron god of the Orsimer. And while attempts had been made to reinstate Trinimac as the chief deity of their people, most Orsimer still tenaciously clung to the worship of Malacath.

Bashnag, for one, could have happily done away with the Daedric Prince of the ostracized—with the whole self-fulfilling identification it brought along—and gone back to revering the champion of Auri-El. Done away with the whole clinging to the idea of conflict and struggle his people had ever been so enamored with. But he was also realistic enough to understand that such a thing would never be. His people had cast in their lot, and it would take nothing sort of a miracle to shake them out of their self-imposed stupor.

And such was his personal impasse. Not fit among his own kind, yet rejected by the world at large. What would there be for such as him other than the life he had come to live? What other path could have waited for him? The tribal strongholds would have rejected him as would have the city-state of Orsinium in the Dragontail Mountains. He could have become a bandit, like his brother had. But the only thing the two had ever shared was a hatred for their father. That and mutual contempt.

So here he was now. No other path for him.

Working for murderers. The biggest murderer of all.

The man he now realized that he loved.

_Not even the gods could help me now._

In his head, a cackle.


	8. Not Quite Like Friends

"Uh, Runa."

Squatting on the side of the winding mountain path, she hissed. "What now? I'm trying to concentrate."

Rusty pointed at the road ahead. "Someone's coming."

"What?"

Runa finished up and dried herself with a handful of leaves. Still tying her breeches, she fixed her eye up the road. True enough, a hunched figure hobbled towards them at a steady pace. Of course it made sense that the Alik'r warriors had not closed off the other end as well, but then what was the point of clogging the other one either? Did they simply turn you back if you came from this direction? Though with Helgen, a ruin of a town overrun by bandits, being right at the pass's westernmost end, not many honorable folk used this pass these days to begin with. And that did not seem to be the case this time either.

Not that the figure approaching looked particularly dishonorable. _Tatty_ was more like it.

"Well, I never," said Rusty. "Fancy a beggar knows the right tricks to charm his way through the desert folk?"

"You never know," she said.

"That's no beggar," said Hroar, suddenly appearing on Runa's other side. Their horses stood grazing by the side of the road.

"No?" asked Rusty. "Looks just like a beggar to me."

"No. See the shorn hair? That's a mendicant."

"A _what_?"

"Greetings!" called the old man. Either he'd only seen them there, or simply had the habit of walking with his head down.

"Afternoon," said Runa.

The squat, goblin-faced fellow stopped in front of them. "Is it afternoon?" he looked about. "Ah. Aye. It is, it is indeed!" He chuckled. Must've been easily entertained.

"The road's blocked," she said.

"Is it?" he peered behind the three companions.

"Not here. At the very end."

"Aah, so you must be speaking of the Redguard then? I know them, they're very nice lads underneath all that . . . soldiery stuff."

"You mean to tell us they just let you pass?" asked Rusty.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Of course they do! Why wouldn't they? Old Plautus never did anything to them."

"Well, young Runa and her friends didn't do anything either—"

"Young Runa did _something_ to one of them," said Rusty out of the corner of his mouth.

"Hush," Runa said. To the old man, "So you're some sort of a priest?" The second time in a short time now that she was asking that.

"Me? Oh no! No, no! Fools, the lot of 'em. If you don't mind me saying. And even if you do."

"We ain't exactly the devout lot."

He studied them with that perpetually amused expression on his leathery, weathered face. "Yes. I can see that. Well, that's good, I suppose."

"That's a peculiar attitude for someone like you," Hroar said.

"Is it? And what am I like?"

"Well, you know. A monk."

"A _monk_? Hmm, well, I guess you could say that I am one of those. I do seem to be short of a monastery, though!" And he chuckled again. Runa was starting to suspect that he was more than simply easily entertained.

"It's your business, then," said Runa. "If they let you through then that's their business. Well, we need to be—"

"What is your order?" Rusty asked. Runa sighed. Since when was he interested in religious matters?

"Order? Why, none at all! No order whatsoever!"

"I don't get it."

"No," old Plautus said, studying the younger man. "You don't."

Rusty frowned. "Now what is that supposed to—"

"My order," the man interrupted, "is as old as the skies themselves, my young friend. It has no structure, and no form. And, therefore, no rules or doctrine. That poppycock that the priests would like you to believe? Childishness! The true holy truths of the universe cannot be crammed into their pointless words, much less believed in!"

"Then why would anyone bother to—"

"Because you suffer, that is why! All of us!"

"I don't, not right now."

"Ha! So you say. And you are a fool."

His eyes narrowed. "You know, I don't take kindly—"

"No, I am sure that you don't. But kindly or unkindly—those mean nothing to me!"

"Well, I feel wiser already," Rusty muttered.

Plautus snorted.

Raising her arm to keep back the scowling Rusty, Runa said, "This has all been very elucidating, but now I'm afraid—"

"Why," said Hroar then, and Runa rolled her eyes, "do you say that we suffer?"

"Isn't it simple? Because we _live_."

"That's a problem easily solved," Rusty mumbled.

"So to live is to suffer?" Hroar said. "Is that it?"

"I don't know. Is to be you to ask stupid questions? No, don't answer that!"

"You know," pitched in Runa, "for a holy man you sure have an attitude."

"Who said anything about holy? _Wholly_ foolish, perhaps!" And he gave a hearty chuckle.

"I still have a hard time understanding this," Hroar said, frowning. Poor boy, he was really trying to make sense of the madman's ramblings.

"Then you have hope yet."

"What do you mean?"

"You are still able to recognize the limits of your own understanding. That puts you one head above most people, believe me."

Hroar seemed to consider that.

"It is really a matter of me trying to explain to a dung beetle what the sunset smells like," the man said.

"Yeah," said Rusty. "That's about accurate."

Ignoring the man, Plautus went on. "The notion of the ultimately painful nature of all sensation is simply madness to anyone who has not experienced it directly. The purity of Aetherius—it's only a bunch of childish fairy-tales to those whose roots still firmly lie in the rotten soil of Mundus. Even the most gifted mage remains blind to it. Incredible! And the Thalmor, though they pay lip service to the higher ideals, why, they haven't got a clue. And they would bring about an end to it all? Ha!"

"Haven't we heard about enough?" Rusty asked.

Still ignoring the other man, Plautus said to Hroar, "Tell me, when you fuck a woman, why does she moan so?"

Runa snorted. "You've got the wrong man, brother!"

Hroar glared at her, but Plautus seemed intent on ignoring her as well. " _Pleasure_ , you might say. But I say it's because of _pain_! Pain which her pure spirit experiences when in touch with the taint of this world. She knows terrible agony, though her perceptions are so skewed by this perverse false creation, that the delusion of pleasure is all she knows. How pitiable, how sad! And in the end, Sithis shall claim her soul and then the true meaning of suffering will come to her in full detail!"

"Yeah," Rusty said, "that's deep."

"I don't care a shit for _deep_! I care for truth. And truth is not deep. No, the truth, my friend, is ever right at the surface. It is only human stupidity that runs deep."

They were silent, and the man himself seemed to run out of zeal.

"Well," he said equably. "We each have our own path to travel." He gave a shallow bow. "I wish you all the best with yours." And he deftly circumvented the companions and went on his way.

Runa turned to frown after the strange old man. Then, after a dozen or so surprisingly swift paces, she called after him. "Who is it that you follow?"

Plautus stopped, turned around to give her an oblique smile. "No one."

Then he was off again, plodding towards where the three companions had just come from.

As they stood there watching the man gain distance, Rusty sniffed. "Well, that was a random and completely pointless encounter."

Runa pensively chewed on the side of her mouth. "Yes," she mused. "So it would seem"

"Well," Rusty said with a shrug. "He's going to be the Redguard's problem soon. Best we keep going, yeah?"

"Yeah," Runa replied slowly. "Yeah, right y'are, of course." She squinted once more in the direction of the mysterious little mendicant, then shrugged it off and turned to go collect Frost and carry on their journey.

* * *

Bashnag sat on his horse and watched as the Helgen gates slowly opened inwards. The deep groan of the hinges made him feel as though the gates were as eager to let him through as he was to enter. One of the bandits on top of the wall waved a hand at him, and he automatically waved back. Then he recognized who it was, saw her smile, and felt his heart sink.

He had to duck his head when riding in. Then matched some of the unfriendly glares around with his own. He knew his was meaner from how they looked away. What in these circles passed for respect.

The sinking feeling then deepened as the familiar bandit from the top of the wall had quickly descended and now stood next to him.

"Well, well, well. Look who shows his face."

Bashnag grunt—

"Nuh-uh! Don't you dare reply to me with one of your rumbles, Bashee!" Dura planted her fists at her sides. There was no arguing with her when she got that way.

Bashnag sighed, swinging himself off the horse. "I ain't here for a social call."

"Ain't you ever," she said, staring hard into his eyes. Dura had those eyes with the habit of seeing exactly what you were thinking. She stood tall, even for an Orsimer female, and was only half a head shorter than Bashnag, yet much slighter of build—not to say she wouldn't have twisted a run-of-the-mill Nord man's shoulder out of its socket when arm-wrestling. "And the rest of us are staying here for the bloomin' jolly company!"

Bashnag gave her a tired smile. "Aye."

"Aye," she mimicked.

"What'd you want me to say? It ain't like we're—" _Uh-oh_.

"Like we're what?"

"Nothing'."

"No, no. Say it! Ain't like we're what?"

"Like . . . friends, or something."

"Oh," she said. "I see. So that's how it is. No, no! I get it. And here's me thinkin', well, there's the two of us, the only Orcs here, and . . . well—" She then waved a hand. "Ah, forget it. Why should I explain? We ain't even friends."

"Dura, I didn't—"

"No, you did! You did mean it. And that's fine. Really. I get it. It's just. . ." She sniffed. "Never mind. Enjoy your stay. I you're lookin' for Ragnar then he's in his chambers. Just the way you'd expect him." And she didn't exactly _storm_ off, but there was the distinct look to her step that she would have wanted to if only her dignity had let her.

Bashnag stifled a sigh. It hadn't gone the way he'd have liked it to, or intended to. And he honestly felt regretful. But it was probably for the best. He didn't want things to get . . . complicated. Gods knew they were complicated enough as they were. _And it isn't as if one can afford to have friends anyway. So in that sense I was being totally honest._

_Aren't you forgetting someone? Your gentleman-friend in black?_

Bashnag growled. The voice of Malacath was bad enough when it reprimanded, but it getting all sardonic on him was simply too much.

He gave his horse away to be tended to—he didn't need to bother to emphasize that the horse was to be treated well, as the beast would likely kick in the face of anyone trying to give him trouble—and marched across the courtyard of Helgen, the once-city, now a decrepit poorly-upkept bastion of bandits. Where the walls of buildings had once stood were now only the remains of their foundations. Smokestacks had been left standing, some of them turned into cook fires, others simply left as they were. Most of the ground was used for practice purposes, archery and swordplay. Farther back, at the inner courtyard, was the keep which served as the command center, toward which he strode.

Above the keep entrance, the banner of the Empire still hung, color bleached by the sun. You could still discern the Imperial emblem, the diamond-shaped depiction of Auri-El—or _Akatosh_ in mannish tongues. It was fitting, Bashnag thought, that the symbol remained here, as Auri-El was the god of time; though he entertained no notion of anyone here subscribing to such motives for leaving the thing there. The Nightingale, perhaps, but no one else. In any case, the presence of time was very acute in this place. Or perhaps the end of it . . .

Just passingly, the words of the obnoxious kid, Jagar, returned to him. All that talk of prophesies, of dragons. Yes, looking about, the total devastation visited on this place would sure have been convenient to explain with a dragon attack. In truth, Stormcloak war-machines seemed a much farther-fetched story. But dragons were long extinct, if indeed they had ever been. And the havoc wreaked had simply been the rebel army bailing out their leader, Ulfric Stormcloak, before the Empire had the pleasure of executing him. It had happened a long time ago, twenty years or so, and now it was nothing but a vaguely-important slice of history. No mysteries there.

End of story.

Nothing in the decrepit hallways of the keep was worth looking at, so in order to keep from getting depressed by the decay and disrepair, Bashnag kept his eyes cast hard in front of his feet all the way to the "office" of Ragnar, the man who'd been given the thankless task of running the place. One hapless bandit was careless enough to come in his way, so without intending to, much less intending not to, Bashnag ran the fool down without slowing his step. When he came to the double doors he banged on them right away.

"Who's there?"

"Bashnag gro-Ghasharzol. I've a message from the Nightingale."

A pause. "Come in."

Bashnag went in. Then again dropped his eyes to the ground. He grunted in disgust. "I could have waited."

The man stood there next to an unmade bed with his legs wide apart and hands on his hips. "I've got nothing to hide." Even two decades and a hundred pounds ago he would not have been much to look at. He scratched his bare, hairy belly, and then reached down to pick some clothes off the floor.

Meanwhile, the young woman who had by all appearances just been in that bed with the vile man, was swiftly pulling her meager gown back on, her face covered by the dark tangle of hair. She kept sniffing quietly while she dressed. From her, Bashnag's eyes traveled to the Nord, now thankfully back in his breeches.

Bashnag's emotion must have been blatant on his face. Ragnar frowned. "What?"

Bashnag looked away, steeled himself. "Nothin'."

As the woman made to leave, Ragnar waved at her. "Ah yes, yes. Dismissed. Just don't go far, I may need you again soon." And he barked a laugh holding nothing joyous or wholesome in it.

As the woman slunk out past him, and Bashnag caught a glimpse of her face, he realized that _girl_ would have been a much more apt appellation. He found that gritting his teeth could not quite hold back what he was feeling. When his eyes met with the Nord's again, still wearing only his breeches, the man frowned again. "What?"

_Shouldn't go there_. "Who is she?"

"Who? What's it look like? A whore!"

"I was not aware that the Nightingale allows . . . _whores_ kept in here."

Ragnar regarded him as though he were a bit slow. "Are you dumb? Of course he does!" Then, to his credit, what he saw in Bashnag's face was enough to take him aback a bit. "I mean, why not? Man's gotta eat, man's gotta drink, man's gotta fuck, ain't no one gonna deny that. The boss likes to keep his staff happy, you know."

"She from Goldenglow Estate?"

"Nah. Got her . . . another way. Don't look at me like that—she needed some work. She was on her own." He wilted underneath Bashnag's unyielding stare, but he just as soon concealed that with a grin. "Alright, okay. Wrong place, wrong time. She and this young fellow—lovers, I suppose—made the mistake of wandering close to here. A, uh . . . an _accident_ befell him, gods bless his soul, and so, bereaved and lost, we, uh, took her in. Gave her a job. For bread and board. And here we are." He spread out his arms in a _that explains it all_ –gesture.

"The Nightingale, he has been told? He approves of this?"

"Of course he does, I just done told ya!"

Bashnag found that he could do nothing but stare for a while. Underneath the iron persona he wore, he could feel something cracking. _This has nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with what I'm here to do. There's nothing I can do to change things, to change the world. So just let it be._ And he let everything, all the conflict within him, empty out with the slowly released breath.

"What, you think you're better than me?" growled Ragnar.

_You have no idea._ "Only a weak man lays a woman whose eyes are devoid of lust," Bashnag said in impassive inflection. Without letting the man reply, he said, "But that's alright. You may choose to remain weak. Most do. Just don't ask for my respect."

Ragnar raised his chin and gave the Orsimer a haughty glare. "She's just some whore!"

Bashnag found that both of his hands by his sides balled into fists. "You're stretchin' my patience," he grated through gritted teeth. " _Don't_ stretch my patience."

There was no mistaking the flash of fear in the Nord's eyes, even if mixed with all the animosity and bravado. In any case, it was enough to subdue him. Looking anything but happy, he swallowed. "So what're you here for? Message from the boss? He ain't come by himself, has he?"

"He ain't."

Bashnag fished the envelope from his satchel, tossed it onto the floor in front of Ragnar. With barely concealed hostility, the man picked it up and broke the seal.

"Ah," Ragnar said, reading. "He's pleased with the way I run this place."

It was not like Bashnag to roll his eyes, but this time he could not stop himself. While the task of running Helgen absolutely was a thankless one, that fact did not seem to keep the man from taking an inordinate amount of pride in it. Clearly he was one of those bastards who'd never done anything in their lives truly worth taking pride in, so he took from where he could. Most men, Bashnag found, were like that.

"Ah, but what's this—"

"I'll be goin' now." Bashnag swung around to leave.

"You're not interested in what he has to say?"

_Not in the least._ "Ain't my business. Is the storeroom free? I'll be sleepin' there. Make sure no one bothers me."

Ragnar's expression darkened. "You come here and you presume to start bossing me—"

In a few quick strides, Bashnag was standing beside the recoiling Nord. "I do not care about your personal feelings one way or another!" he growled. "Now, do you have any other comments? No? Good. I shall leave in the mornin', and I don't wanna see your face again while I'm here. Do we understand each other?" He studied the man, the anger only barely restrained by intimidation. Ragnar wisely kept his silence. "Good."

And Bashnag marched out. So far, another day without killing anyone. So far so good.

* * *

"So far I've spent the whole day without killing anyone," Rusty said. "Hardly what I'd call a successful quest."

"Hush for a second, will ya," Runa said.

"What are we even looking at? It isn't as if there's been anything worth observing, the only even remotely remarkable occurrence being that big ol' Orc who came to call."

"'That big ol' Orc', _Rusty_ ," Runa said, "was none other than Bashnag gro-Ghasharzol, _the Nightingale's personal bodyguard_. So, just maybe, there's something going on here worth observing."

"How do you know who his bodyguard is?"

"Only everyone knows that."

"I see. No Nightingale, though."

"That's what I'm saying. Why would the bodyguard come alone?"

Rusty shrugged. "Maybe he was sacked."

Runa shook her head. Then shifted as her right leg was falling asleep. The crag they were hiding behind was just tall enough to peer out from behind in a crouching position. The spruces behind them created enough coverage so that they could observe the town here, a couple hundred yards from its northern gate, without worrying overmuch about being seen.

"I'm not sure," Hroar said, "that there's much we can do here. We could wait, see if the Nightingale is coming after. But somehow it doesn't seem like that's going to be the case. Wouldn't make much sense, it wouldn't."

"We could always wait until the Orc departs," Rusty suggested, "then jump him and tickle his feet until he gives us the Nightingale's hideout."

"Can't you be serious for one second?"

"Can't you grow a sense of humor?"

"Shut up both of you!" Runa barked. "Something's up."

True enough, there was someone now standing on the wall walk, peering around, as though anticipating something. Yup, the fellow definitely seemed anxious about something, furtively looking this way and that . . . _There could be a—_ And then he whipped out his cock and pissed down the wall.

"That's it!" cried Rusty. "The sign we've been waiting for!"

Runa shook her head. "Alright. So I suppose it's unlikely we're gonna get anything here."

"Thank you. That was merely what I was saying all along."

"So perhaps one of us will have to—"

"Didn't we go over this? No one's doing it, and that's final. Last I heard someone tried infiltrating the Nightingale's posse, he was caught instantaneously. Word is they used him for target practice. For you, of course, they'd probably find some better use."

Runa snorted. "Speak for yourself, pretty boy."

"It does not seem like a very good idea," Hroar conceded.

"Oh yeah? You got a better one?"

"As a matter of fact, I might."

"Well, let's hear it."

"We could go to Whiterun. Consult the Companions."

"The Companions! You and your eternal boner for that posse of—"

"Wasn't your ma the Harbinger?" asked Rusty.

"Well, briefly," Runa said. "She soon figured out there wasn't much to it, though. Basically they're just a romanticized version of the Fighter's Guild with less fighting."

"They've extensive knowledge about all things criminal," Hroar said. "Even you have to admit as much."

"Sure, whatever. I'll give them that. But that don't mean they'll have anything they could help us with."

"No harm in trying."

"Aren't you forgetting something? The Nightingale's _personal bodyguard_! Guaranteed that if we follow him, he'll take us to the man himself. We couldn't have gotten a luckier chance if we'd prayed for one!" _Never say Runa Fair-Shield doesn't come up with the best of plans—even if coming here had originally been nothing but a long shot . . ._

"I just don't think he'll be taking us anywhere," said Rusty.

"How can you say that? Why wouldn't he?"

"Call it a hunch," he replied.

"I call bullshit! You just don't want to keep squatting here, that's all."

"Well, I don't. But I also don't think it's going to do us any good. Gods know how long the bodyguard will stay."

"Could be he's waiting for the Nightingale. Might be the man will come to us!"

"Could, might. That's no guarantee. And what if he does? We, what, just attack him on sight? He's supposed to be this super-advanced mage and all. We'll be toast before we get within stabbing distance."

"Always so negative, Rusty."

"You know I'm right!"

"You know shit!"

"I hate to say this," said Hroar. "But I think he has a point."

"Not you too!"

"It's tentative at best. And we have no decent plan."

"Running to the Companions ain't gonna help with that!"

"I think we need to be more clever about this. For all we know, this Orc isn't even acting as the bodyguard anymore. Could be the Nightingale has a host of them now!"

"And there is, actually, an unrelated errand I've been meaning to run in Whiterun."

"Shut up Rusty, that's not helping."

"Honestly, Runa," Hroar said. "I do feel that would be for the best."

She regarded them both, then threw her hands in the air. "You two can't be serious! We'd let the opportunity of our lives let slip through our fingers!"

"We're just not seeing it."

"Then you're a pair of blind damn—"

A hiss, and only his famed reflexes kept the arrow coursing at Rusty's head from making impact.

"Shit!" Runa hissed.

"You there!" someone cried. Someone on top of that that keep tower, hiding behind the parapet. Someone who'd spotted 'em. Someone who'd soon have other someones backing him up. "Never should have come here!"

Rusty ran a hand over his unhelmeted head, as if to check everything was still there. "I think that's our cue."

"Let's go!" Hroar barked.

They scrambled out of their hiding place and ran down to retreat their horses. No further arrows followed them, and there was no sign of a grand alarm given over them. Most likely their presence was chalked up to curious travelers poking their noses into places they shouldn't.

"What a waste!" Runa hissed.

"Of time, I know," said Rusty.

"Of a golden opportunity!"

"Opportunity to get ourselves hacked to pieces maybe."

"Rusty's got a point," Hroar said.

"Are you his pet parrot now? _Awk! Rusty's right! Awk!'_ "

"She's just mad because she knows it's true," Rusty said.

"No I don't! I mean, no it's not!"

But there was no point in arguing. Her companions had made up their minds, and unless she wanted to carry on by herself, she'd have to follow them. The worst part, of course, was that there was a good chance that they _were_ right. Even if the bodyguard in theory could lead them to the Nightingale, it was more likely he would simply lead them astray. Plus even a fool knew that a man like that did not really need a bodyguard. There was not an Orc in all of Tamriel big or mean enough to make much of a difference standing between a potential assailant and a man as capable a mage as the Nightingale allegedly was.

Allegedly.

"Where are we going then?" she shouted as they rode.

"Didn't we agree? Whiterun."

"I still say it's a wild goose chase!"

"That's why you've got us, Runa," Rusty said. "We're the voice of reason you habitually push away when left to your own devices."

An ineffectual snort was the best retort she could come up with. It wasn't as if he was completely wrong, even if she'd never admit it to his face. The thing was, though, for better or for worse, Runa Fair-Shield hadn't made the name she had by listening to no voice of reason.

She could make an exception this time, though. Even if it turned out to be a big mistake. Which it definitely would.

* * *

There was a knock on the door. Bashnag, standing in front of the fireplace, warming his hands—they always seemed to get cold, even when the rest of him wasn't—swung furiously around and prepared to give hell to whatever fool was bothering him, when the door opened. The curses died on his lips. And his heart fell all over again.

It was Dura.

"Hey, Bashee," she said. "It's me."

"Yeah," he said, turning to the fire again. "I can see that."

"Well. Can I come in?"

"Sure," he muttered, but Dura had already closed the door behind her.

Bashnag closed his eyes and breathed deep, bracing himself. He then twitched lightly as he felt the touch on his shoulder. Opened his eyes to see Dura standing there.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah, sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

She studied him in the silent hum of the fire, its light glistening in her eyes. Those eyes that could see things most couldn't. "I accept your apology, you know," she said.

"What apology?"

"Look, I'm here tellin' you that I forgive you. Just accept that, please."

"Forgive me what?"

"Your outburst earlier, of course, silly! I know you didn't mean any of that stuff. I get it. It can't be easy for you, the pressure you're under. And after a long ride, you were tired. Said things that you never meant. And, who knows, maybe just tryin' to push me away—afraid of your own feelings?"

_Feelings?_ Bashnag felt his brow break into a cold sweat. "Alright," he grunted, trying to ignore it all. "If you say so."

She gave a sardonic smile. "If I say so . . ." She reached up a hand to turn Bashnag's face towards hers. "That gruff-boy act may work with the others but it ain't workin' for me, you hear me?"

Despite himself, he felt his ears burning. A churning about his abdomen. He swallowed a grunt _. Oh, please don't._

"It's okay," she said in half-whisper. "You can let down your guard for a while. You can trust me, I'm . . . your friend."

Bashnag could not take it anymore. He tore himself away from her. "Why'd you come?"

Either Dura wasn't put off by his peevishness, or then hid it well. She shrugged. "I dunno. Why did I?"

_Don't do that! I want nothing with your games!_ "How should I know?"

She was silent for a while. Damned woman, she used even silence as a weapon! "I hear you gave Ragnar quite the scare?"

"Did I?" _That was the intention_.

She snorted. "Absolutely! They say he was particularly livid after you'd left his rooms. That means you scared the living daylight out of him!" She walked behind him, laying her hands on his shoulders, making him tense. Feeling that, she started to gently rub his shoulders. "Relax!" she murmured.

_How could I possibly relax?_ With all his might, he suppressed the scathing laughter deep in his psyche. He steeled himself enough to turn to face her. "Why are you here?"

Ignoring his question, she caressed his shoulders again, then let her hands slide down onto his chest, letting them rest on his muscles there. "Little wonder he was scared," she said. "You could tear him to shreds without breaking a sweat. I've always admired that in you. Your incredible . . . strength." As if to emphasize her words, she gave his muscles a caress.

_You don't know what you speak of_ , Bashnag thought. _You really don't_. He was too afraid to as much as grunt. He stared into those sharp eyes. There was definitely lust present in them.

Then, faced with his impassiveness, she frowned, suddenly letting her hands drop. "What's wrong with you? You're as if made of stone."

He made no reply.

"Or is it me? There's something wrong with me, isn't there? Am I that ugly?"

"Please," Bashnag said, "don't."

"Don't what? Be alive and act accordingly?" She studied him. "You can't bring yourself to say it, can you? You find me repulsive, but can't say it. That's the only explanation—"

"I don't, Dura. I really don't."

"Then what? I simply don't understand? Here we are, both in our prime. Complementary to each other. Each without commitment? What gives?" Her hands were back, then, running from his abdomen to his back, and then settling on top of his buttocks.

"Please . . . just don't." He tried averting his face from that piercing, lustful gaze of hers.

She caught his face again. "I don't understand! It just makes no sense—" She paused. "Unless, of course . . . could it be that—?"

Bashnag couldn't take it anymore. He swatted her hand away, then took her jaw into firm hold, turning her around and pushing against the table at the back wall.

"Bashnag—" she breathed.

"Shut up!" he growled, pivoting her around and pushing her onto her stomach against the table. In one swift motion, he undid her loincloth, then pulled it down, simultaneously undoing his.

"Oh," she moaned. "You bastard!"

With his other hands, he grabbed her hard by the back of the neck, pushing her tighter against the table, and ran the other one between her legs. Already moist. Sheer force of will got him hard, and he used his free hand to guide himself in, then used both hands to press her down while thrusting.

Dura's moans were interspersed with grunted curses. She made a show of trying to resist him, but he didn't even need employ a quarter of his strength to keep her in place. Knowing his own kind, she wouldn't be expecting a lengthy or artful affair, so he kept the work short but sweet. He soon concentrated his focus and brought himself to a finish. The final hard thrusts drew high-pitched whimpers from her.

Then, as he was finished and pulled out, something hot and salty dripped onto the small of her back.

He quickly wiped the fluid off, and then promptly wiped where it had originated—his eye.


	9. Companionship

 

 

 

The sun had begun its long process of setting when they walked through the gates of Whiterun, casting a golden light over the buildings and the streets. The same gold tinted the puffy scraps of clouds above them, and the side of the Throat of the World to the East. From about these times all the way to Hearthfire, the sun liked to linger in the sky, taking its sweet time to set and to rise, during the day mostly staying low. Runa had always loved the long days of spring and summer, even if the short and relatively light nights of summer made it difficult to sleep at times. But then, who was sleeping anyhow?

The city, in any case, was in the process of calling it a day. The main drag was peopled by folks scurrying about, some on their way home and some to one of the two local inns. This was one of the two times when the hinges of the inn doors were most burdened, the other time being later when the bulk of the customers dragged themselves home to recover for the coming day.

All the feet going this way and that kicked up a dust as they scraped the sand in between the street's cobblestones. In this sun-gilded haze, pressing through the crowd, Runa and Hroar walked toward the market square. Rusty had departed for the evening, for his supposed "business call," though it was obvious what kind of business the man had. In any case, it was better this way as his obvious distaste for the Companions wasn't exactly a one-way affair. Not that there was love lost between them and Runa, either, but at least she believed that they more of less trusted her. Just as she more or less trusted them. Emphasis, perhaps, on _less_.

She nodded a greeting to a town guard as a pair of 'em walked past. Even with the faceguard, ol' Radd was easy to recognize by his somewhat limping gait. She marched in confident stride, acting as though it'd been her idea all along to come here. Taking special care of concealing the fact that she still very much thought it a bad call. They should have stayed. They should have waited for the Orc leaving. They would have been led straight to the Nightingale, she just knew it! But there was no way she was able to convince her friends of that. This, perhaps more than anything, chafed at her. Since when had her powers of persuasion started to diminish?

_Don't panic, girl. After all, you managed to talk them into this suicide mission, didn't you?_

_It's_ not _a suicide mission—_

Before she started arguing with herself—or worse, sowing seeds of doubt in her own mind—she cleared the dust from her throat. "Well, now we're here I could sure go for an ale, couldn't you? Perhaps better grab a couple afore we head out to yon Companions' mead hall. You know, to ease them nerves a bit?"

Hroar gave her a look she did not particularly appreciate. "I'm sure they'll give us a drink over there too." Then the look turned even less likeable. "What, you're _nervous_? Well. I would have never thought—"

"I'll have you know—" Runa started, scowling.

"Hroar!"

From a stall at the other end of the market square, centered on the town well, a woman came running at them. She came so fast that Hroar barely had time to utter, "Mila!" before she was all over him, enfolding him in a mighty embrace.

"It's so nice to see you!" Then, still holding onto his shoulders, she pulled back with a frown "Where have you been? It's been _forever_!"

"Uh. I've been . . . busy."

"Busy trying to save the word from itself again." The way she said it, it wasn't a question but a reproof.

"Aye, well . . . beats just idly watching by as it destroys itself."

The dark eyes of the woman with the heart-shaped face and olive skin studied him, her little bud of a mouth in an appraising pucker. "You haven't changed at least." Then she hugged him again.

"Come now, little doves," said Runa. "Can we just skip the courtship dances and cut straight to Hroar's world-famous half-minute ecstasy? We haven't got all week. Plus I'm getting thirsty."

Drawing away from Hroar, Mila regarded the woman. "Yes, of course. You would be with him. Hello, Fair-Shield."

Runa smiled. "Come now, most call me Runa."

"Well, I'm not most people now am I?"

"No, you most certainly are not. Most people would not go so near this stinky old coot, not to mention hug him. So, are we done here? We got things need doing."

Mila looked at Hroar. "What trouble is she getting you into this time?"

Runa snorted. "He's more than capable of getting himself in trouble. I'm sure you know all about that."

Ignoring her, Mila said, "One day she'll be the death of you, I'm telling you."

"Don't I know it," he sighed.

"I'll have you know," Runa said, "I've saved his ass more times than I can count."

Once more ignoring her, Mila said, "So, I take it you won't be in time for long?"

"Probably not. We're here to see the Companions. See if they've got some information we could use."

"I see. And I don't suppose you have time to come see me afterwards? Have a drink at the Bannered Mare maybe? Surely you have time for that much. I haven't seen you in at least a year!"

He seemed to hesitate at first. "Of course I have some time. Say I'll, uh, see you there after our visit to Jorrvaskar?"

She smiled. "That sounds great! I'll wait for you at the Mare."

"Make sure to reserve a room," Runa said, smirking.

Hroar gave his friend a quick glare. "I'll try to be quick," he said to Mila.

Runa snorted. "I don't think you need to _try_ —"

"Shut up, Runa!

"Take your time," Mila said. "I'll be waiting."

"Words he's never heard before."

Both ignoring her, Mila and Hroar shared another hug, and then Mila went back to her booth to pack up her merchandise like all the other traders around, and Runa and Hroar continued on to the stairway leading up to the Wind District.

"I can't have you both running after cheap thrills, you know," Runa said, "or we're never getting anywhere with this."

"Look who's talking!"

"First of all, that was more business than pleasure—don't give me that look!—and second: ha! So you admit that that's what that was all about?"

"I admit nothing. Mila and I are old friends."

"Of course you are."

"Believe it or not, not everyone is like you, Fair-Shield."

"Now don't you start with the _Fair-Shield_ s as well!"

Hroar waved a hand.

"Say what you want. But I saw the look she gave you."

"Whatever, Runa."

Jorrvaskar, the Companion's mead hall, built out of a flipped-over longboat, perched at the highest point of the Cloud District, and in the whole city was topped only by the Skyforge beside it, and of course by Dragonsreach beside that. The place was, according to the local legend, the oldest building of Whiterun, originally commanding the mountain around which the city was then built.

Without further ado, or without bothering to knock, they went in.

After the bright sunlight, it took a few seconds for the eyes to adjust to the hall's dimness. Underscoring the base smells of the place, food—a meaty broth of some sort—smoke, old wood, and ancient sweat, was the musty whiff of a dirt cellar. The myriad cobwebs draped over the rafters and the chandelier hanging from them fluttered with the draft from the open door.

The oblong main floor was centered on a mighty fire pit surrounded by trestle tables, and by those tables, sitting at opposite sides, there were currently only two people supping. The other, with his back turned to the door, seemed to be focusing mainly on the drink—several bottles of ale and a half-empty jug of wine in front of him—while the other was stooped over a bowl of stew of some sort—for all Runa knew, only water in his cup.

Both men took notice of the arrivals, the one with the soup giving almost no reaction, whereas the face of the younger man turning to look over his shoulder split into a genial grin.

"We-hell!" Grimvar said. "Mighty visitors come to call!" He raised a bottle at them—an empty one. "Join us for a drink?"

" _Us_?" Runa asked.

"Aye," replied Grimvar, shooting a glance at the older man who had gone back to his soup as though nothing at all of note was taking place. "Exactly why I could use some company."

Runa had to say, the sight of those bottles sure did tickle her. _Might as well have a bit of a welcoming toast, I suppose._

"It's good to see you, Grimvar," Hroar said. "And you too, Torvar."

Torvar's shaggy head remained over his bowl, but at least he bothered to give a haphazard and barely noticeable wave of one hand.

"He ain't changed," commented Grimvar. "And neither have any of us around here. And you two look about the same as well." He sniffed. "Which means you're up to no good, eh?"

"We're on a mission of grave importance," Runa said solemnly. "Snort all you like, but if I told you you'd be singing a different tune."

"Where is everybody?" Hroar asked.

"By _everybody_ ," Grimvar said, "I take it you mean Njada and Vilkas? Well, Vilkas is out training some new kid, while Njada—"

"Cub!" Floorboards thumped and creaked as another woman now ran at Hroar with her arms out—a good decade older, this one.

This time it seemed the man was better prepared, as he got his own arms out in good time before the lady crashed into him. "Hey, Njada. _Oomph_ —your arms are as stony as ever, I see!"

"Let me look at you," Njada Stonearm said. "You've lost weight. Do you get enough to eat? Are you short on money?"

"Not for long, in any case" said Runa.

The other woman's expression went all deadpan as she took a look at Runa. As did her voice. "Oh. And you. Hello."

"Hello!" Runa said, smiling sweetly. "You're looking good! You know, for a decrepit old harpy."

Years doing what they did to a woman, the lady had sadly sailed past her prime years ago, but that wasn't to say that there wasn't still a certain desirability there. He breasts, still—in spite of all the miles under her belt, they still weren't bad to look at. Especially now that she had her arms crossed underneath them, what with that generous neckline and all.

Njada waved a hand over Runa's eyes. "Get your lecherous eyes off me, woman, or I swear to gods I'll slap you around!"

Runa smirked. "Promises, promises."

Njada's eyes traveled towards the cobwebbed rafters. "Ugh! Why, Hroar, do you insist on dragging her with you?"

"Oh, I assure you, it's quite the other way arou—"

"Shut up, Runa." As the woman's eyes went back to Hroar, they softened. "So, what brings you here?" She glanced at Runa. "She's got you in trouble again?"

"I'm perfectly capable of getting myself in trouble!" Hroar said. "Why does everyone think I need to— Don't look at me like I'm still eleven years old!"

"Sorry," Njada said, her bearings softening. "I can't help it. You'll understand if you ever have kids of your own."

"Gods forbid," muttered Runa.

That was the funny thing about the man. While the other kids at Honorhall orphanage had been adopted the normal way, by private citizens, not so with Hroar: his foster parents had been none other than the Companions themselves. This had actually been Ma's idea, some years after she'd adopted her, once Runa had been telling her about her old friend who still had not been picked by anyone, and who she knew wanted nothing more than to become a fierce warrior. With the generous financial help that the woman had provided the orphanage, and her being the then-Harbinger—that was to say, formally at least, the leader—of the Companions, she'd managed to talk both parties into making this most unheard-of arrangement come true. It had been more or less the best thing to happen to Hroar, even if the beginning hadn't exactly been easy—or so Runa had heard. As far as she was concerned, he'd done well not to officially join the band in the end, but had taken from them what leaning he could before moving on to bigger and better things.

Hroar cleared his throat. "Anyway, we were hoping to get a little help with something."

"Ha!" said Grimvar. "I knew it!"

Njada gave him a sharp look. "You still here?"

The man scrambled up hastily. "Aye. There was someplace else I needed to be anyhow."

"What about him?" asked Hroar after Grimvar had ambled off, nodding towards Torvar.

Njada waved dismissive a hand at him. "Eh!"

"Well, if you can't trust a fellow Companion," said Runa. "Who can you trust, right?"

Njada gave her a minute glance. Then focused on Hroar again. "So what can I do for you?"

"We need to know all you can tell us about the Nightingale."

First Njada's eyebrows shot up, then crashed down as she frowned deeply. "What has she gotten you into now?"

"She—?" Hroar took a deep breath. "Granted, this was her job at first—"

" _Job_! What job?" Njada panted a sarcastic laugh. "What, you've been hired to kill the Nightingale now?"

Silence.

"You've _got to be_ kidding me!" said Njada with as severe a look on her face as Runa had ever seen.

Runa glanced at Torvar, who showed no sign of reacting to this sudden revelation. She wondered if he'd even heard. Used to be a real talkative fella—when sauced—whereas nowadays . . . Far as she knew, the man had been like they saw him now ever since he stopped drinking. Now, Runa could not understand why people went and did such things. Little good had it done him.

"No joke," she told Njada. "All serious business, and handsomely rewarded at that."

Njada snorted bitterly at her. "You're going to get yourself handsomely buried is all!" To Hroar, "I heard rumors of some fools trying to find people for such a feat! What madness prompted _you_ to accept such a suicide mission?"

"Well, Runa—"

"Yes, of course! It's always Runa, isn't it! Ever since she talked you into leaving the Companions she's been getting you into trouble!"

"I never talked him into anything!" said Runa. "Left you behind out of his own will, he did."

Njada pointed a sharp finger at her. "You!" she hissed, shaking the finger.

"Yes?"

It did not appear as though the older woman had thought about it any further, simply stood there glaring at Runa, with that finger still hovering between them like an impotent weapon.

Njada then gave out a heavy sigh, slumped down on a chair and poured herself a generous cup of wine. "Well, I don't suppose I can say that I'm surprised." She took a liberal swig, and looked up. "You want information about the Nightingale? Well you've come to the wrong place. I don't know anything more about him that anyone else. He's a mystery, that'n."

"What about Vilkas?"

Vilkas was the other leader in addition to Njada; the old love-birds has been running the joint ever since Farkas and Aela the Huntress had taken off to who knew where. Njada was clearly the brains of the operation, and he mainly the watch dog that kept her off your throat. Or tried to.

Njada shook her head. "He doesn't know anything either, I'm sure of that. He's always done his best to steer clear of such things."

"I tried to tell you," Runa said in a singsong voice, studying the worn tips of her boots.

Hroar shot her an annoyed glance. "Isn't there anyone? Surely someone of the companions has something we could use."

"I'm telling you, ain't no one have any—"

"I have something."

Bemused eyes turned to Torvar, whose own eyes still remained fixed on the table in front of him.

Njada threw her hands in the air. "He speaks! Truly, you have performed a miracle this day!"

Torvar lifted his gaze to hers, a disdainful look, then went ahead to study Runa and Hroar. The stare of those ice-blue eyes was surprisingly sharp. "You'd be amazed, the things you can learn," he grated, then shot Njada another look, "if you can manage to keep your _mouth shut_ for a moment."

Njada rolled her eyes and returned to her cup.

"What do you know?" asked Runa.

Torvar studied her, shrugged. "Oh, a little of this, a little of that."

"You can start with this and expand on that," Runa said. "If you please."

"Well, for one, I know that he's lately been keeping the fabled Fort Dawnguard as his main hideout."

"I've heard that rumor too. The problem is—"

"That no one seems to know where that is. It's somewhere in the Rift."

"According to persistent hearsay."

"Ain't no hearsay."

"How do you know that?"

He shrugged. "Call it . . . a hunch."

Njada snorted. Doubtless she had a word of her own she would've called it.

Runa, on the other hand, gave a nod. "Yeah, alright. I can get behind that."

Njada snorted again, pouring another cup.

"Y'know," Runa told her. "You really should cut back on the drink. It's really bad for your skin. Gods know that at your age—"

"Shut it, Fair-Shield."

Rolling his eyes at his smirking partner, Hroar leaned his hands onto the table, making the wood creak. He fixed Torvar with an intense stare. "That's not exactly helpful, far as I can tell. Somewhere in the Rift just doesn't cut it, does it? What else you got?"

Torvar studied the defiant younger man a moment, then shrugged. "Nothing."

Hroar pushed himself off the table, throwing his hands up. "Big help you were!"

"Now, I didn't say that was all."

"What do you mean?" Runa asked.

"I mean I may not know much more, but I happen to know someone who does."

" _Who_?" interrupted Njada. "Who do you know? Far as I can tell, you never leave this house for longer than it takes to go take a piss around the corner."

Torvar gave her a shrewd look. " _Whom_ , Njada. It's _whom_ do you know."

She pointed the cup at him, as though it were a dagger. "You're about to know a serious whooping, I can tell you that much."

" _Whom_ ," Runa said, before the two had the chance to go any further, "do you know, Torvar? Someone who could help us?"

"Aye," he said in a drawl, slowly pulling his eyes, gleaming with mischief, from Njada. "Someone who indeed might. Someone you know as well, as it happens."

"Aye? Now I'm intrigued. Was not aware of knowing any folks knowledgeable on the Nightingale."

"Yeah, well. It ain't exactly something you want to be declaring to everyone, is it."

"True enough. So, who is this mystery man or woman?"

"Man," Torvar said. "And if you excuse me . . ." Still addressing Runa, he looked at Njada. "I'm not quite comfortable giving his name in front of prying ears. Would feel as if I'm betraying his trust."

Njada rolled her eyes. Then sighed. She glanced at Runa, and spoke to Hroar. "I've got other things to do anyway. So, are you in a rush or do you want to spend the night?"

Hroar and Runa traded looks. "Er," Hroar said. "It's alright, we can check into an inn—"

"Ah, stop it!" Njada cried. "It's me. There's no need to pretend. So, I'll get a couple of free bunks for you." she stood. "Be right at home, take some food, ale, mead, anything. You can share your secrets in peace and when you're done, come see me, Hroar, and we'll catch up. Yes, Runa. Ha-ha, very funny. You're so predictable it hurts."

Smirking, Runa gave a shrug. "Well, whatever. Thanks for your hospitality in any case." To Hroar, "I take it that it will take Rusty until morning to—"

"Oh, gods!" Njada groaned. "Not him too! Some company you keep, Hroar. Thought we raised you better!"

Hroar looked down at his feet, looking embarrassed. Funny how the big guy could look so much like a little boy.

"Yeah, well, who am I to judge I guess," Njada said. "And I know you're a big enough boy to take care of your own business. You have to understand, part of me will always see you as just a child. Makes me a bit . . . defensive."

"I think _offensive_ describes it better," Hroar said, then immediately looked as though he regretted it.

She studied him. "I'm sorry if it comes across like that. But, believe it or not, I've never believed in being on the offence. It is as I've always tried telling you, Hroar." Njada said, and tapped the edge of the round shield strapped to her back. "Defense is often the best offence."

"Oh?" Runa shrugged. "I always found _offence_ to be the best offence," she said, resting her hands upon the pummels of her blades.

Njada offered the other woman but a quick glance of ice-cold indifference in reply. "Be that as it may," she said. "I'm sorry if I seem patronizing. You're a grown man, and will have to make your own decisions. Anyway, come see me when you're done here, and we'll talk more." Then, shaking her head, she left to get their bunks ready.

Once she was gone, Runa took a seat, grabbing the unfinished bottle which Grimvar had left behind. Taking a swig, feeling a wave of pleasure even with the tepid and stale swill, she then leaned over the table to lock eyes with Torvar. "So, let's hear it."

 


	10. Complications

Bashnag opened his eyes and stared at the dilapidated ceiling. It took a minute for the dream world to fade away completely and for him to return to this so-called reality. The transfer was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. The problem with living in a world like this was that it was difficult to tell whether you awoke from a bad dream or into one.

_Too early for that_.

He rubbed at his face. Then recalled last evening. He quickly turned his head to find the other side of the wide bed empty. She had left. _Thank the gods_. He rubbed at his face again, shaking his head. Not soon after the first time, they had done it again. And soon again. None of the times had been much more spectacular than the last; nor would Dura have expected any different. _"You sure know what a girl likes."_ Had she actually said that? She had indeed. Bashnag shook his head again. _Unbelievable_.

_I'm just surprised you actually had it in you to act like a real man for once! Even if it did take your every effort to feign it._

Ignoring Malacath's derisive voice, Bashnag pushed himself off the bed. He winced at the pain in his back. It, as the sore muscles about his loins, was from yesterday. He then suppressed a shiver. The hearth had long been cold, and of course there were no servants to stoke the fires. His every breath was a faint puff of mist. The dampness of the earth surrounding him seeped through the many cracks in the walls.

Bashnag scowled. He hated this place. Hated everything it represented. He could not get out of here soon enough. But he would do his best. Quickly collecting his things, he stormed out of the room and up the stairs. No one had better try to encage him or they would be truly sorry. Gods, how he hoped not to run into Dura, yet was unable to count on his luck.

He would go out and collect his horse, growl at anyone who in any way tried challenging him, then ride out as fast as he could—not that he had any way of controlling the horse, hopefully it would be smart enough to get to where he was supposed to go—without as much as a glance back. If he was lucky, which he never was, he'd never have to come here again. Perhaps he could try to explain to the Nightingale—

No, out of the question.

Almost out, the door in sight. And no Dura. Though no doubt she'd be waiting outside. There, walking past Bashnag in the hallway now, was that girl, the poor Nord from Ragnar's room. Something about her caught his attention . . . _No, spare her no thought_. Pushing things away, yes: right after breaking people's bones, that was the one thing he was good at. _Almost there now—_

Bashnag stopped. The girl.

He just couldn't push it away.

Spinning around, he caught up with her in in a few long strides. Took her by the shoulder, felt her grow tense as she stopped. She would not turn or otherwise seem to acknowledge him, simply submitted to the fact that her movement had been arrested. When Bashnag gently brought her around, she kept her eyes on the floor, the tangled snarl of her hair hanging in front of her face. She did not resist as he tenderly took her by the chin and lifted her face, swept the tangles aside. She would not meet his eye.

Bashnag scowled. Around one eye, there was a fresh purple bruise, reaching down over the cheekbone. He suddenly remembered what Dura had said. Supposedly he'd made Ragnar livid. And if there was one thing weak men did it was take their helplessness out on those more vulnerable than them.

That's how his own father had been. _Now that's laughable. The great warlord a weak man? Who would ever believe such a thing_?

Fools wouldn't, that was for sure. To them, a man like Bashnag's father was not only strong, he was the solid foundation on which they could lean. His words inspired such fear in their weak souls that they were regarded as truth—as _law_. He could do no wrong. He was strong, as so he was wise. This was the sort of sort of stuff they ate up like a swarm of locusts. Then go seek out some other fools whose skulls to bash in. Welcome to Nirn.

The drunken slur of the old man's angry words rang in Bashnag's ears as he felt the world grow dark around him. Could still feel the memory of the blows, could feel that old instinct to hunker down and cower away. And, even more fresh, remembered his own bloody oath that never again would he do so.

Bashnag realized that he had balled his hands into fists, so hard that his overgrown nails bit into his palms. He could barely feel the pain. Then he realized that the girl was no longer in front of him. In fact, he himself was longer where he was and was now on the move. In a fevered step, his own legs, as though out of their own volition, fast propelled him forward. But it wasn't towards the door.

Where he was headed to was Ragnar's chambers.

Some two dozen frantic, pounding heartbeats later he stood at the bedroom's double doors, gave them three hard thumps. "Ragnar!" he boomed.

"Go away, I'm busy!" The man's gruff voice of ire, replying after a brief silence, hid a different emotion.

"You and I gotta talk! NOW!"

"Who do you think you are? Get the hell out of here, I told you—"

Bashnag kicked the doors in, the one of them coming off one hinge, a broken board clattering across the floor.

The wide-eyed bandit, still under his furs on the bed, after a stretch of bemused muteness, swung his eyes toward the corner of the room where his scabbarded sword leaned against the wall. Then his eyes returned to Bashnag. Calculation.

He scrambled out of the bed, and dove for the weapon.

But the Orsimer was faster. A couple long strides and he had Ragnar by the back of his neck, lifted the man up as easily as though he were a child. Bashnag smashed him against the wall. With a grunt, the man went limp onto the ground. Bashnag spun him around, grabbed him by the throat and lifted up again. Pressed Ragnar against that wall, and leaned in close, stared into those eyes brimming with shock and terror. Oh, if only he were able to see himself now. Perhaps there was a chance he'd understand the irony, no matter how slim of one at that.

Bashnag bared his teeth. "I told you not to stretch my patience!" he roared, spittle splattering on the Nord's face. "I FUCKIN' _TOLD YOU_!"

* * *

"I told you," Runa said in singsong as they stepped outside into the already relentless midmorning sun. Heat was already radiating from the cobblestones under their feet.

"What?" Hroar frowned at her. "What are you talking about? Torvar gave us a solid clue."

She shrugged. "I don't think Torvar and the word solid even fit in the same sentence. If you know what I mean."

"I don't, Runa. As usual, I have little idea of what you mean."

Runa hissed with a wave of a dismissive hand. Then gave a sour belch. She winced. The Companions' own brew of mead was damn strong stuff. And she'd had . . . a few. Though, all told, after downing a vial of hangover elixir and grabbing a couple soothing ales to break her fast with, she didn't feel half bad. And that skin of wine she'd stashed in her satchel when she'd been sure no one was looking should tide her through the morning at least.

"Well, I hope Rusty is doing better than you," Hroar said, ignoring her answering indignant glare. "We'll just go collect him and then go head out to look for Vigrod."

"Sounds like a plan," Runa said.

"At least you can still recognize one, then."

"Leave the snark to the boy with the lips for it. I don't suit you _at all_."

Hroar made no reply, simply grinned with self-satisfaction while keeping his eyes ahead. In fact, the man seemed a damn sight friskier than he had the previous days. Why, there was almost a jaunt in his step.

"You seem to be in an awful good mood," she observed.

He shrugged. "What if I am? It's nice to see family."

"Is it? I guess, if you say so." Runa narrowed her eyes. "You did spend a long time with Njada. Did she . . . _do_ something to you?"

He had taken a break in the middle to see Mila, but had after that once again secluded himself with the old lady for more private time of who knew what. Far as Runa could tell from her own drinking, that was.

Hroar scowled. "How many times do I have to tell you? She's like an aunt to me."

"Yeah, well. Sometimes a really nice aunt can . . ."

He made a face of utter revulsion. "Ech! You're disgusting!"

Now it was Runa's turn to be smirking.

They met Rusty by the gate, a mischievous grin directed at them as they came to him, clearly ready to brag about his last night's escapades. But he was met with Runa's warding hand.

"Don't even go there, Rusty," she said.

A disgruntled look flashed on his face, but he just as soon shrugged it off and went on grinning. "So? Strike on anything," he eyed Runa up and down, "besides a hangover?"

"Oh, plenty, my boy, plenty. A major lead, just as I said we'd find here!" She glanced at Hroar, but he was only rolling his eyes. She waved at them to follow. "Come on, lads, we ain't got all day."

She slunk through the crack of the gate before they guards had had a chance to open it all the way, and the men followed dutifully.

"Where to, then?" Rusty asked. "If you don't mind me asking." His step looked just a tad awkward as he tried to keep pace with Runa, though it might have only been her imagination.

"Actually," she drawled. "I'm not so sure it would be wise for me to—"

"We're looking for Vigrod the Gimp," Hroar cut it.

"Hey!"

Ignoring Runa, he went on. "Remember, that pseudo-mysterious blowhard who used to hang around the Rift back in the day? Not sure where he's been lately. But in any case, supposedly him and a bunch of Rift folk are bandit-hunting around Folkreath, and we're off to look for them."

"I vaguely remember. Not a terribly impressive fellow, to be honest. And, as I recall, not in fact a gimp at all. Why're we looking for him?"

"According to Torvar," Hroar said, before Runa got a chance to get a word in, "he knows things about the Nightingale no one else does. At this point, he may just be our best bet."

Rusty snorted. "Torvar! Are you sure he didn't just make it up?"

"Torvar may be a lot of things," Hroar said, "but a liar he ain't."

"This other guy might be, though."

"Sure. That's always a risk. But it's one we must be willing to take."

"I don't remember anyone appointing you the leader," said Runa, but it came out more forcefully than she'd intended.

Hroar gave her a level look. "I'm not trying to lead, Runa. But do I have to remind you that it was me whose idea it was to come here?"

" _Yours_?" Runa burst out with as much indignation as she could muster.

"Don't even try, Runa!" Rusty said. "You'll only embarrass yourself."

She pointed a sharp finger. "Now listen, bucko! When and how I choose to embarrass myself is entirely up to—"

"Miss Fair-Shield!"

The attention of all three suddenly went ahead to where the source of the voice stood in their path.

The Khajiit gave them an outwardly humble bow. "It is most fortunate that you are here! This one begs that you follow." He eyed the others, "And your companions as well, this one supposes."

The companions shared quick looks, the men wisely seeming to wait for Runa to speak first. "Right," she said. "Of course. So, uh, what's the—"

"Please," the Khajiit interrupted, piqued beneath his obsequious manner. "All questions shall be answered back at the camp."

Without argument, they then followed after him.

"Best you two keep your traps shut until further instruction, hear?" Runa whispered at her companions.

The reply was two pairs of eyes rolling up in perfect synch.

They stalked down the sloping path between Whiterun's inner and outer gate, threading their way through the throng of merchants and city guards going in and out of the city. Runa wiped at her brow with the back of her hand, and it came back sweaty. _Curse the heat_. She couldn't even remember when it had last been this warm at this time of year. Sure could use a—

"Drink?" asked Rusty.

Runa frowned. "Huh?"

The man proffered a waterskin her way. "Looks like you could use it."

With curt thanks, she took it and took a hearty swig. Could've used more kick, sure 'nuff, but it was better than nothing. Still, perhaps just one ale would be the charm. Then she could concentrate on this . . . well, whatever this was about.

Runa turned her face to the clear blue sky and briefly closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. The warm air blowing at her, the chorus of birds clamoring all 'round, the grind of the sand underneath their boots. Focusing on the minutia of the now, keeping the doubts about the near future at bay. _One step at a time, eh?_

Break it down to small parcels and even the biggest bite looked doable.

_Until, of course, you choke on it—_

"Shut," she muttered slowly, "up."

"Are you alright?"

She opened her eyes to counter Hroar's faintly concerned expression with a nonchalant grin. "Never better. How could I be, with what we're about to do? What, aren't _you_ exited?"

Hroar snorted.

Yeah, he was only trying to hide it.

* * *

_What are you trying to hide from me? Don't think for a second I won't find out!_

Bashnag kept his attention straight ahead on the winding, narrow mountain path as he rode. There hadn't been a word spoken. That's how he preferred it. Though, truth be told, it hadn't been even half an hour since he'd ridden out of the Helgen gate for what he hoped was the last time—but which he knew was unlikely—so there might be time for words yet. Such was his fear. In any case, there had been some words spoken back at the bandit settlement as he'd marched out with his hands covered in blood, but none to him; he had made sure of that by glaring at anyone who'd harbored the intention to. He had a way with glares, tended to shut folk right up. They hadn't said a word about his . . . _loot_ either. Though clearly there were those dispositioned to disagree with his right to take it, but . . . well, what were they going to do, dissuade him?

_And they likely found better things to worry about once they discovered Ragnar. Which I'm sure did not take them long._

The most important thing of all was that he'd not seen Dura. _And, will Trinimac, never shall I again_. He wanted to snort at his own thought. _Ought to know my own luck by now, shouldn't I?_

His abdomen then tensed as he felt the Nord girl behind him stirring. The arms wrapped tightly around him as they'd been the whole ride, now for the first time showing signs of loosening somewhat.

She cleared her throat. "I . . ." A feeble voice. She cleared her throat again, then said, a little firmer, "I don't really know what to say."

"Best you say nothin'," Bashnag grated, keeping his eyes on the road.

A moment's silence. "Where . . . are you taking me?"

"Away."

What was he going to say, that he hadn't the faintest idea? _Taking her to the Nightingale would likely be out of the question. Perhaps I shall drop her at Ivarstead. Should I trying asking her where she's from? No, bad idea. Don't want to know too much._

"I . . . see," she said. Then remained silent once more. Thank the Nine.

Bashnag closed his eyes in an upsurge of dismay. What was he doing? He'd spent his entire working life—if indeed he was audacious enough to use such honorable sounding terms—taking care to stay out of business that was in no way his, had avoided rattling all manner of cages. And now he had just— No, this was not acceptable. No matter how pure his intentions.

He could not cure the world, not one little bit. For all he knew, this thing he had now done would cause far more suffering than it had solved. Deep in his heart he knew it for the truth. He was simply incapable of doing the right thing, of playing the hero. He was a thug, and nothing more, and he had to own up to it for once and for all. His whole life thus far had pointed to this. Being rotten was all he was good for—in a manner of speaking. His actions here had done nothing but invite unnecessary complications, and he'd yet suffer for—

A sudden jolt tore Bashnag out of his dark reveries, the heat against his back which he'd grown accustomed to abruptly absent. Of its own accord, the horse came into a smooth halt. He turned his head back in time to see the girl spring up from all fours, then bolting on the sleet-mixed muck of the ground and nimbly scurrying up the rocky bank, soon vanishing from sight.

His mouth came open only after the passing impulse to say something had vanished into thin air. He sighed, then shook his head. Then grunted.

The slightest nudge of the reins and the horse was walking again. Bashnag kept his eyes nailed straight ahead. He would not sacrifice another thought to any of it.

Relief and deep sorrow vied for space within his heart. He shoved them both aside.

_Better this way_.

* * *

"This way," the Khajiit said, gesturing at the big yurt outside the city gate.

"Yeah, thanks," Runa said. "I got that." She pushed past the bemused looking feline and dove into the redolent tent.

Where she met the perturbed eyes of Dra'Ajira. The Khajiit elder sat cross-legged on the large carpet, frowning—insofar as cats _could_ frown—up at her. "Come in, Runa," the female said, her voice serene as ever despite the look in her eyes. She peered behind the Nord. "And yes, they are welcome as well."

"Er," Runa said. She hadn't even _thought_ about needing to explain her associates. She was then mildly distracted as she took passing notice of Ashni-Do's absence. _Ah, now isn't that too bad_.

Dra'Ajira's straight line of a mouth broke into an empathetic smile. Another strangely humanoid gesture: one natural to them or a learned behavior? "Yes, of course this one expects you to employ whatever help you need."

Unhesitant as ever, Rusty then shoved Runa aside and after the minutest of glances around flashed the old feline his most charming grin. "Well met! My name is—" His eyes went to Runa, and he sighed as his eyes rolled softly. "Rusty. My name is Rusty. At your service. This here's—" He gestured. "—named Hroar. Hope that does not somehow insult you—that's just what he's called!"

Hroar warily stepped from behind Runa, frowning. He gave the Khajiit a quick nod. "How do you do." Then seemed to try to make himself as unnoticeable as he possibly could with his bulk.

Dra'Ajira eyed the two men for a brief moment, then, seeming to ignore Rusty's jabbering, nodded her head as to give her approval and focused again on Runa. "This one is so glad we met with you here today. Alkosh must be looking out for us."

"What's this about?" Runa asked.

"There has been . . . development."

"Development?" _Uh-oh, that doesn't sound good_.

Dra'Ajira picked up a folded piece of paper from the low table behind her and offered it to Runa. Runa took it with badly suppressed hesitation and unfolded it.

"It is short," Dra'Ajira said. "And to the point."

"What's it say?" Rusty said, and, scowling, Runa waved the paper from out of the way of his prying eyes. "What? Gotta be something important the way your eyes almost bulged out of your head."

"Did not!"

"What does the note say?" asked Hroar, stepping in between the two.

Runa cleared her throat—boy, it was _parched_!—and read: " _'Should you wish to see your errant_ kinscat _again, go to where the moons remain mum and carefully follow the instructions you shall find therein_ '." She looked up. "No signature."

A moment's silence.

"Sounds like a trap," Hroar said.

"Sounds like nonsense," said Rusty. " _Where the moons remain mum_? What the crap is that supposed to mean!"

Runa looked up with a pensive expression. "Where the moons remain . . .," she mumbled. _He's right, that don't make no goddamn—_ She glanced at the old female, who seemed to be studying her with anticipation, something knowing about the expression on those feline features. The cat's mouth was just about to open, when a thought came to her. "Aha! Of course! The Silent Moons Camp." The Khajiit nodded approvingly. _Whew, now that was lucky!_

A light came upon Hroar's countenance. He nodded, and the look he then afforded Runa was even a bit appreciative. She felt a stupid wave of pride, but soon swept it aside.

"Well, that, at least," remarked Rusty, "isn't very far." He looked at Dra'Ajira. "I take it that you want us to go there?"

The feline bowed her head. "I would never ask of such—"

"Of course we'll go," Runa said. "Part of the job, far's I can see."

Rusty's look was dubious but he wisely kept his big mouth shut.

"This one is thankful beyond words," Dra'Ajira said, once again pressing her face down.

"Still sounds like a trap, though," said Hroar, the appreciation on his face a thing of the past.

"Most likely it is," Runa replied. She patted at the pummel of one of her blades. "But we're well acquainted with those, ain't we?"

"Wait, Runa," Hroar said. "But they don't know about us, do they?"

Runa regarded him.

" _Do they_?" he repeated emphatically.

"Nah." Runa shrugged, then quickly followed that up by a shake of her head. "No, of course not. Why would they?" She turned to face Dra'Ajira. "Right?"

"There is no reason to believe that," the Khajiit elder replied. "But of course we cannot know such things for certain. We are dealing with a very dangerous individual."

For a fraction of a heartbeat, Runa thought Dra'Ajira meant her and felt the stab of that foolish pride. She cleared her throat. "Yeah, right. No reason to think that. Why you asking?"

Hroar frowned. Then sighed deep. Shook his head. "No reason."

"They'll be expecting Khajiit, then," Rusty said.

"Most likely," Runa replied. She smirked. "In fact, I'm counting on it."

Rusty's frown joined Hroar's. "What are you talking about now?"

She smirked wider.

Truth be told, she had no idea: but she did have the distinct feeling that they were all going to find out real soon.


	11. A Bad Plan That Cannot Be Altered

"So what's the plan, again?"

"You know damn well," Runa said wearily, "that I didn't say anything about no plan."

"Yeah, I know," replied Rusty. "That's why I was asking."

Runa wiped sweat off her face, slanted another hostile scowl at the sky. Was it really too much to ask to get some overcast for a spell? The bare plains of the Whiterun hold offered no shade against the blaring sun, and the yellowed tufts of grass dappling the uneven, craggy terrain stood as still as death itself to rub in the sorry lack of an alleviating breeze.

Gods, how she hated the summer! If only it wasn't for the admittedly nice lack of the winter's biting cold wind; and for the long days of nearly endless light; and for the balmy, bright nights of ale and carousing; and for the way young lads reduced their garb to show off their tanned, toned flesh; and for the selfsame balmy nights spent carousing with the selfsame toned lads—ah, well, she definitely disliked getting toasted in her armor and sweating like a pig, that was for sure!

"And . . . ?" Rusty persisted with an expectant drawl.

"And what?"

"Well, you know. Perhaps we could, I don't know, come up with one?"

"I concur," chimed in Hroar. He walked his horse to the right of Rusty, who walked his to the right of Runa walking hers. But even from behind two horses and one jackass the accusatory tenor of his voice was unmistakable.

Runa glared at the man's head above Rusty's. "You concur," she muttered.

"Well?" Rusty demanded.

"Well," Runa said, "as a matter of fact." She wiped her brow. "You'll be pleased to know—" She wiped at her brow again. This was so beneath her dignity! With her bounty she'd hire a squire-boy who'd be charged with the additional duty of walking beside her on days like this and mopping her brow. That, and, well, the obvious. _Kinda like that thought, in fact—_

"Stay with me, Runa. Pleased to know what?"

She scowled at her friend, then grinned. "That I have in fact dreamed up a solid plan already."

Rusty looked short of convinced. "You mean you just thought of something panicked and half-assed?"

_Almost. Just give me a sec— A-ha! That's it_. She gave him a condescending click of the tongue, shaking her head. "Oh, you doubting Thorald. Where's the unshakable confidence you used to have in me?"

"Where? I believed it was shaken to pieces about the moment I first met you. What are you talking about? I've always had a healthy sense of mistrust for your plans! Owe my life to it, I believe."

"So you say," Runa said, with unshakable confidence in herself. "Barks and bites and all that. But I know better."

Rusty rolled his eyes.

"What's the plan, Runa?" asked Hroar.

"Is that skepticism I hear in your voice?"

"Curiosity about what madness you've planned for us is what you hear."

"No madness, my friend. Just good old-fashioned cunningness and conniving."

Rusty buried his face in one hand. "Oh gods, Runa," he groaned. "I'm loving the sound of this already."

"I can tell. Hey lads, don't fret! This is a solid one. Remember the evasion tactic we've employed before, like that time we stole the Aetherial Shield from Wretched Restla's gang—was it five years ago?"

Rusty regarded her soberly. "Sure I remember that. And it was ten years ago. Restla's been dead for five."

"No! Was it? Has she? I didn't kill her, did I?"

Rusty shook his head.

"That plan don't sound half-bad, actually," Hroar said.

"Thank you!"

"Don't thank him yet," Rusty said. "So how do you propose we go about this?"

It's certainly was no thing of higher alchemy, this plan of hers, but that was the beauty of it. No need to overcomplicate things. They approached Silent Moons Camp, the gloomy ancient Nordic ruin on a hill, from the southeast in a way that put the easternmost side of its semi-circular wall between them and the camp. They abandoned their horses behind some crags a rock's throw away and progressed on foot. The plan was as followed: Runa would continue to approach the camp this way while the boys went to the front to garner the attention of the folks, who'd undoubtedly be keeping out a keen eye for intruders. They would then proceed to antagonize the bandits, and once sufficient aggressive attention was bought, would bolt and hopefully draw a good portion of the fools after them. Meanwhile, Runa would sneak around the wall and into the camp all stealth-like, slink inside and stealthily kill anyone who came in her way, find what they were supposed to find, and then sneak back with . . . eh, well, stealth.

Simple but deadly, far as she was concerned, and she for one was perfectly happy with it. "If you cannot explain your plot to a five-year-old then you're overcomplicating things," she always said. Of course, Rusty saw it fit to counter that with, "And if that five-year-old would then tell you that your plan is idiotic, then perhaps you're doing the exact opposite." But that was Rusty for ya, the eternal naysayer.

But now, at least, the man, as well as Hroar beside him, succumbed to her wisdom and were both committed to do what they could to see the plan realized. At her sign, they took off at a trot and circled out so as to come to a sufficiently tantalizing distance from the camp entrance. Runa herself silently sprinted to the wall, pressed against it and edged along its curving side to get over to the corner where she had a good view of her men and of the camp's entrance. The two men soon scrambled into the bandits' view. And just as soon she heard the first gruff cries from behind the wall. She couldn't hear the words but was more or less able to guess them. " _You picked a bad time to get lost, friend." "That's close enough!"_ And what had you. Bandits were anything but unpredictable.

Runa watched with satisfaction as the boys first provoked the ruffians—Rusty's lewd gesture forcing her to suppress a chuckle—and then, after summarily dodging a couple of arrows, sprang into a run, drawing, as planned, several bandits after them. They took different routes and Runa, trying keep hidden, didn't get as close a look as she'd have liked, but she thought she counted five altogether. She grinned. There couldn't have been many more guarding the outside. Probably at least another one, more likely two.

She'd take care of them without trouble.

Impatiently counting to ten to let the fools gain some distance, she then gingerly pounced into motion, tiptoeing to peer around the other corner where she could see the inside of the camp. Poking out a careful head, her eyes went wide. No one, far as she could see. They were even dumber than she'd thought—sent their entire outer garrison to chase after some random loons!

Well, all the better for her purposes.

Still on her tiptoes, she snuck on. She cast about furtively to see any possible bandit she might have missed, finding none. The stone ruins veered up with the craggy hills they were built on, a few paces ahead a steep flight of stairs skirted by a wall on each side; to her left, a doorway at the bottom of the wall, but with a lowered gate blocking it; ahead and still to the left, the fortress' entrance, just where the stairway started. That's where she headed. With a watchful eye on the steps, she bounced onto the stone platform in front of the entrance and, after pressing an ear against it and hearing nothing, carefully opened the unlocked door.

No one there either. The place was of the classic ancient Nordic architecture, a large cavernous space with vaulted arches giving shape to its different sections. Runa looked and listened by the entry for a minute, and then slowly pressed the door closed behind her. She stood for another second, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light of the room, concentrating all her senses in an attempt to feel any potential presence. She felt nothing of the sort. Right ahead, a couple strides from her, a campfire surrounded by empty bedrolls dominated the chamber's middlemost section. To the right from the hearth, there was a doorway leading deeper into the place. She knew that that was where the others would be, if indeed there was anyone. She was certain there was.

Just as she once more got into motion to go look for them, something on the left caught her eye. There was a table and chairs in the farthermost section there, your usual clutter of bandit junk on the table, plates, some meager chow, gold coins, a dagger with its blade planted into the tabletop. None of that stuff interested her. What her eye had picked up, on the other hand, was the bottle of ale sitting in the table's middle.

Now, she couldn't tell whether this was an objective fact or if this was merely a special gift that only she was endowed with, but she could always tell a full bottle from an empty one, even in bad lighting, simply based on— Well, honest to gods, she could not tell what it was based on, but somehow the empty bottle and the full bottle were of a wholly separate aspect in her eyes, even if she were only able to see the outline.

Be that as it may, the stub of candle by the bottle confirmed the fact of its fullness even to the less gifted: the way the line of the beer visible in the light stood blessedly close to the stopper still tightly in place.

Well, she didn't know what fool left undrunk beer lying about, but she was not the kind of woman to let such an oversight go—

_Wait just a second_. Runa hesitated. Sure, this unexpected detail had already brought her to a stop, and sure, she had already pivoted around to fetch this blessed nectar of the gods—she was, after all, now that she thought of it, damnably thirsty—but now she had second thoughts. She was on an important mission, and could not afford to let her attention slip. This was the sort of stuff that caused lives. The gravest of losses were, more often than anyone cared to talk about, suffered for the stupidest of reasons.

_For once you're making sense. Now, for the first time in your life stove your base desires and focus on what you came here to—HEY!_

Before the fact that she'd in fact proceeded to go collect the bottle and was now pulling the stopper out with her teeth had even sunk into his consciousness, she was—well, doing just that.

_I swear woman—_

"Ah, shut up will ya." Runa spat out the stopper and pressed the mouth of the bottle to her lips and let the liquid flow down her parched throat. Still cold.

_No it's not—it's as warm as horse piss!_

But Runa had not perfected the art of not letting others tell her what to do by listening to every little whining of her own mind, either. If that made sense.

All that mattered now was how wonderful the ale tasted in her mouth, and the comforting warmth that spread out into her belly. It was a thing of beauty! _I swear, a sentimental fool that it might make me, but sometimes, at moments like this, I could just cry—_

"What the Oblivion!"

Runa's closed eyes came open, and then darted to her left whence the sudden stunned utterance had come. The bandit standing at the section of the room there stared at her with utter disbelief, which rather soon took on a suggestion of acute ire.

He then fumbled for the sword on his belt. "Never should have—"

Acting quick, with the bottle still in her mouth, Runa realized she could not get either of her blades out fast enough, so she surveyed the things on the table in front of her, immediately locking onto the dagger. She yanked it free with her left hand and tossed. The knife sailed true across the air, the blade sinking into the bandit still fussing with his weapon. He crashed backwards and collapsed onto the floor to finish dying.

At the guttural curse behind her back, Runa spun. Another bandit, her longsword already in hand, prepared to lunge at the intruder. Where'd they suddenly decide to appear from? Once again acting without hesitation, Runa finally took the bottle out of her mouth and threw it at the other bandit. Her reaction time wasn't bad either, but the bottle's fat base still made impact with the edge of the top of her unhelmeted head, then shattering onto the floor. The bandit cursed, as Runa swallowed the last mouthful.

The bottle had bought her the necessary time to unsheathe her two swords, and once she had them out, she and the bandit rushed at each other. The woman came at Runa with a high diagonal chop, which she caught between her own crossed blades. Taking the blow, she let her knees bend, placing her right foot behind her for support. Then she took that same foot and aimed a kick at the woman's left knee. The bandit was able to move her leg so that Runa's foot only grazed it, then she disengaged and, as Runa tried moving on to get behind her, used her own right foot to kick her in the stomach.

Runa's clenched abdomen damped the blow, yet she felt a portion of her wind being knocked out, and the power behind the kick was enough to send her toppling backwards, hitting the wall behind her, which drove out yet more wind. She went down on her rump but in the next second was already springing up. In fact her life depended on her doing so, as the bandit sought to finish their skirmish with a low swing, which would have taken her head off had she not closely ducked from underneath it. As she did so she jabbed almost blindly at the bandit's legs with one blade. Lucky enough, there was contact, and the tip of the sword hit the woman's left thigh covered by the skirt of her hide armor. The woman growled in pain, to Runa's satisfaction. She did not linger in that feeling, however, but dove ahead, seeking once more to get behind her foe.

But the bandit proved once more to be a quick one, and as Runa ducked past her, kicked back with her unwounded leg, hitting Runa in the back of the head and sending her tumbling forwards. Runa just managed to control her fall enough to not tumble all the way into the hearth, and instead landed on her knees right at the edge, the outermost flame licking at her face, spitting smoke in her eyes. She quickly wiped her eyes with her sleeve as she spun around to receive the bandit's next offence.

Which was already coming. The woman grinned at Runa, seeming sure of her imminent victory over the intruder on her knees in front of her. Clearly she was not familiar with Runa Fair-Shield . . .

_Conceited pride, yeah this seems just the time for that._

The woman came with a scream and an overhead blow, and Runa sprung from the floor with a cry of her own. Before they could make contact, however, Runa came to a sudden stop, then tipped back to fall on her back onto the floor. Surprise usurped the woman's grin from her face. Her heavy blade sailed over the suddenly supine Runa, while the momentum kept her moving forward. Runa pushed up her legs, shoving them into the bandit's gut, and then lifted the woman in the air. As she then threw the woman over herself, she jabbed with one blade, and it sank into the flesh just below the bandit's ribs. And then the bandit landed on her back in the hearth.

Runa kicked her legs up and came to her feet, turned to watch the screaming woman crash wildly in the flames yet not seeming to be able to extract herself from them. She jabbed with one blade again, finding the woman's throat and cutting the screaming off once and for all. She winced at the smell, and with the use of both blades, levered the bandit out of the fire before the smell got even worse. Then, after gathering her breath for a couple heartbeats, she stepped over the fire to cast an eye toward the doorway there. With all the racket, if someone was still here, they would have surely been alerted to her presence by now.

Yet no one came.

"Alright then," Runa muttered. She rolled her shoulders and crept on.

The doorway led to a sloping passage, which soon turned to the right. Down there she could see flickering torchlight, where the passage held only empty sconces. Only the minor scrunch of sand underneath her boots as she descended into the cavernous room, cold and smelling of dirt and mold, empty save for some mushroom growth on the floor and a row of barrels at the back. The doorway at the left side of the room led to a further corridor, and Runa had taken less than half a dozen steps before she came to a stop. The passageway took an almost immediate right turn, and right behind the corner someone's back clogged the way. A bandit, a live one at that. The fool was rocking softly on the balls of his feet, trying to whistle and failing. Oblivious both to the deaths of his comrades and his own immediate one.

_From words to deeds, old lass._ On her tiptoes, Runa snuck right behind the man. He never caught of whiff of her until she'd slid the sharp edge of her right-hand blade across his throat, and then he was too busy wheezing on the ground, dying, to take notice of whose hand he had the honor of being slain by. _I'm sure it'll still earn you some credit in_ Sloven _gard, or wherever the heck you lot go when you die_.

The passageway terminated in a locked door, the lock easily picked. She then shoved the door open with one foot and prepared to take out whatever bandits were left. But the room was empty. Sparsely furnished, and yet a disorganized mess, no evidence of frequent usage. A ladder culminating in a trapdoor dominated the room's middle, leading, she knew, up to the camp's shuttered tower. Runa's eye then went to the large chest sitting by the ladder. She cocked her head. There was a sealed envelope resting atop the lid. _Well, well, what do we have here_?

As she went over and was about to grab the envelope; however, she was stopped by the muffled noises from outside. She looked up. That was definitely Rusty's bellowing, interspersed with sounds like explosions. Now, what trouble had the boys landed themselves this time? Couldn't she trust them with the simplest of tasks?

Sighing, she rolled her shoulders, and started climbing the ladder. _Runa Fair-Shield to the rescue. As usual_. She carefully poked her head out.

"—and she wasn't even very good at it!" came Rusty's cry, followed by another explosion.

Runa clambered out into the hollow tower, shaking her head. _Always with the mother cracks!_ She yanked a pull chain by the wall to raise the gate, then went to peak out of the gateway to see what all the commotion was about.

Rusty and Hroar hid behind a piece of detritus of a tower or something of the like. Every now and then Rusty poked his head out and called out another puerile insult, resulting in another hurl of explosive fire against the stone coming from the direction of the stairway. Rusty was grinning. The damn man was clearly enjoying himself. Yet it didn't seem as though this charade was getting them anywhere, an assessment Hroar behind the other man clearly shared with her, judging by his shaking head.

Obviously somebody needed to take out that mage accosting them. Somebody whose name happened to begin with an R and end in an _ield_.

Runa looked up. A portion of the planks of the tower's upper level was missing at one end. She could use the cracks in the wall to climb up. Springing into motion, she nimbly clambered up and onward onto the wall. Ahead, close to the stairway, stood the bandit mage who had his eye fixed hard over where her men were hiding. Keeping low, Runa sprinted across the wall and onto the fort's roof, until she was almost directly over the bandit. She jumped down so silently she could've ambushed a cat, landing on the stairs behind the mage, then, staying outside of his peripheral vision, snuck up. She caught the eye of Rusty, just poking his head out for another, doubtless scintillatingly brilliant jeer, and gave him a quick nod.

The bandit fool was just about to send out another flaming missile, when Runa hissed, "Hey, hot stuff!"

The startled man just had time for a jolting spin towards her before she stabbed both blades into his unarmored trunk, one in the lower belly another just below the ribcage. Putting her legs into it, she lifted the man in the air above herself, momentarily locking with his shock-stricken gaze, then tossed him down.

_Flamed skewers, anyone?_

Runa left the bandit to deal with the matter of his soon-departing soul, and turned to her companions with blades raised in the air, blood running down their length. "Course's clear, fellas!"

She grinned as the two brave warriors came out from their hiding. She gave them a theatrical bow, then flipped the blades around and in one fluid motion stuck them back into their scabbards. She really ought to have cleaned them first, but that would have totally botched the dramatic effect.

"Took care of the mean wizard for ya!"

The boys were clearly ashamed of their cowardliness, yet still took it upon themselves to pretend as if they found her swaggering somehow unmerited. She decided she would let it slide this time, let the poor sods scavenge what remains of dignity they could. She even magnanimously decided not to mock them for their—

"One unarmored dunce with entry-level magic and you guys run and hide like a pair of chickens!"

Ah, well. Never mind that, then.

"Oh, sure," Rusty said. "Forget the half-dozen boneheads we chopped up back there. I mean, that's nothing, right?"

Runa walked over and clapped his shoulder. "Oh, no. I'm sure those stooges gave you hell. Meanwhile, I've got us what we came here for."

"What is it?" asked Hroar. "And where?"

"Right this way, boys," she said. "Right this way."

She towed the men behind herself through the tower's now open doorway and down the trapdoor. Once down, she picked up the sealed envelope and waved it in front of their faces. "This," she said, "is it."

"How do you know?" asked Rusty. "You haven't opened it."

"Yeah, well I didn't have time, did I? Had to come and rescue you."

"What do you think it is?" asked Hroar.

Runa shrugged. "Don't know," she said, then tore it open. "Let's find out, shall we."

She read.

And if the confident smirk on her lips had no necessary connection with her psychological state, the following shifting of her countenance was certainly a direct descendant of her suddenly flipping insides: this time her eyes really did nearly bulge out of her head, conterminously with her jaw plummeting toward the floor. And she was reasonably sure that wasn't too crass an overstatement.

"What?" Rusty asked, looking troubled.

"What?" echoed Hroar, appearing no less ill at ease.

Runa stared at the letter. No immediate comment, she had to admit, came to mind.

"What is it?" pressed Rusty, impatient.

Runa looked up from the paper. "Eh."

"Eh, what? For gods' sake, Runa, you're making me nervous!"

She found her tongue. Then read the letter out loud. Her voice didn't even crack once. Or twice at least.

_Runa Fair-Shield_

_Yes:_ we know.

_Do not be alarmed. This makes no difference. The game is the game, no matter the players. Do you not agree?_

_I knew that you would._

_Now, if your employers wish to see their beloved drifter again, take this chest to them. Once they open it, they will know what to do. A fair warning here: DO NOT OPEN IT YOURSELF. Do so, and the Khajiit will not be seeing a single hair of their clansman. Bet on that._

_Best of luck to you!_

_Yours,_

_The Nightingale_

The face she'd shown them couldn't have possibly shown more shock then the boys' now did.

"Shit," Hroar said after a long moment's silence.

"Yeah."

"Mother of shit!" cried Rusty.

"My words exactly."

"The Nightingale," Hroar said.

"Same fellow."

"Could be a hoax?"

"Who could pull such a hoax?"

"Good point."

"So I guess they weren't expecting the Khajiit after all," Rusty said.

"No, doesn't seem like it."

He groaned, burying his head in his hands. "Oh, gods."

Runa chewed on her lower lip, trying to think. "Look—"

"Crap!" Rusty barked, head springing up. His eyes were frantic. "Then he must know about _us_ as well!"

Hroar looked troubled about being included.

"Won't lie to you," Runa said. "There's a good chance of that."

" _Fuck_!" Rusty stalked off to the side, gave an empty barrel a sturdy kick, sending it rolling across the floor. "I knew I should've declined when I had a chance!"

"Well, it's too late now," Runa said. "You fellas have thrown in your lots."

Rusty looked to think about it. "I wouldn't be entirely sure about that."

"What are you talking about?" asked Hroar.

"We haven't exactly done anything yet. We could still bail out. Maybe lay low for a while. Go to High Rock for a couple years until it all died down. They'd forget about us."

"I'm not going to no High Rock!"

"No one asked you to!" Rusty snapped. "I'm mainly speaking of myself here."

Runa's anger flared. "Well make up your damn mind, then!" she hissed. "Either shit or get outta the kitchen!"

"Seems you've arranged me a spot in the stew pot!"

Runa _pff_ ed. "Not even a giant would eat your boney, rotten ass!"

Rusty's eyes narrowed hostilely. "You sure are doing your best to make my decision easy."

"Get out of here, then!" Runa waved her arm. "You were never but a—"

"Guys! Guys!" Hroar interjected, stepping in between the two. "This is no use!"

"I'll tell you what's _no use_ ," Runa said, motioning at Rusty's crotch. "That little—"

"Stop!"

Addressing Runa, Rusty said, "Like me, it just knows to bail out in front of certain peril! Gods, I swear this is the last time I let you—"

"SHUT UP!" Hroar . . . well, _roared_.

Then he collected himself as two pairs of wide eyes suddenly stared at him. "Look, Runa's right. Backing out now might not make any difference, as, for all we know, the Nightingale has eyes and ears in all corners of Tamriel by now. _Including_ High Rock. He wants us dead, we're dead. Furthermore, we knew what we were getting into when we agreed to her plan."

Runa gave Rusty a grin she herself knew for smug.

"And _Rusty's right_ ," Hroar went on, smothering that grin. "It goes without saying that we had better look critically at what we're trying to do here. To assassinate a man as powerful as that is one thing; to have him _know_ that you're trying to do so . . . well."

"What are you trying to say?" Runa demanded.

"Well, what does it sound like he's—"

Hroar silenced Rusty with an upheld hand. "What I'm trying to say," he pronounced, "is that just maybe we need to alter the plan?"

Rusty snorted. "What plan?"

_He's got a point, does Rusty._ Runa narrowed her eyes. "Alright. You've got something there, I'll hand it to you."

Rusty threw his hands up with a roll of his eyes, then stalked off to the side, muttering something.

"So what do we do?" asked Hroar.

"I don't know," Runa admitted. "But I'll think of something. Meanwhile . . ." She directed her gaze at the casket.

Rusty returned, seeming somewhat calmer yet still very much incensed. He eyed the wooden container with distaste. "Still gonna run this errand for him? It could be a trap, you know."

"Don't you think," Runa said, "if he wanted to set us a trap he would've done it already."

"He's playing with us," Hroar said.

"You _think_?" Rusty said, and Hroar replied with a glare.

"But to what end?" Runa asked, unsure whether or not she'd meant it to come out loud.

"One can only imagine," Rusty said, and shivered. "And I, for one, care not do that. Heard too many stories of him."

Runa snorted. "Old wives' tales!"

He eyed her soberly. "If that comforts you."

"I'll be comforted," she said, spitting, "once I stand above his cadaver."

"First we have to figure out," Hroar said, "how in the name of Stendarr we'll get there."

"I wouldn't be worried," Runa said shrewdly. "I've got some tricks up my sleeve still."

Instead of rolling his eyes or snorting or the like, Hroar simply stared at her for a moment, then nodded. Honestly, she would have rather welcomed the former. She didn't have the slightest of clue what she was doing, or how she was going to solve this. If anything, she'd counted on the Nightingale remaining ignorant of her enterprise. In hindsight, that had been an incredibly childish notion—even, she had to admit, for one of hers.

_You are a fool! Everyone's got your number: you'll wind up being the death of all who follow you! And of yourself . . ._ She grinned. "Spices things up, a little challenge."

Now Rusty gave her that look too, as though he were earnestly trying to figure her out. She braced the insufferable gawping with heroic fortitude.

Finally, the strawberry blond man gave a shrug, returning his critical eye to the chest. "So," he said, "you think the Khajiit's corpse is in there?"

They traded looks, but no one ventured a guess.

"Well," Hroar sighed. "Guess there's only one thing to do." He moved to stand beside the chest, and Rusty, once he gave a glance at Runa and saw that she wasn't moving, rolled his eyes and went to the other end.

They lifted the chest up, both almost stumbling as the thing showed little resistance. Surprisingly light. Looks were traded again, but no word was spoken of this either.

It was just as well. Runa for one had heard enough talk. She'd need time to think. While they hauled this whatever it was back to the Khajiit, she would work her brain to a pulp and think of a plan. And, she swore, this time she'd have one at hand by the time they got to Whiterun.


	12. Monsters

Rarely had a detail of history been as telling as the struggle of the Orsimer—long regarded as no better than monsters by other races—for their own sovereign kingdom. Time and time again Orsinium had risen in the mountains of northwestern Tamriel, and time and time again it had been torn down, long-standing sovereignty ever but an ephemeral dream. Today, the latest incarnation of Orsinium stood in the mountains separating Hammerfell and Skyrim, falling within the territory of the latter. Perhaps the Orsimer had hopes that the Redguard of post-war Hammerfell would feel enough sympathy for the pariah elves to respect their long struggle for independence. Or perhaps, more realistically, it was simply that they hoped that the dire political position of the province, being under constant threat of fresh aggression from the Aldmeri Dominion, would be enough to deter them from unnecessary cage rattling.

Whatever the case, the two races admittedly did share certain qualities. For one, they were both markedly martial societies; both believed in instilling the art of warfare into their people virtually from infancy, and thus each hosted some of the most fearsome warriors in Tamriel. However, while this had led to Hammerfell keeping any invading force from breaching their borders, the Orsimer boasted a decidedly less successful track record. Each in their way was also an outsider in Tamriel. Not that there weren't stark differences regarding this as well. The Redguard, hailing from the continent of Yokudan, arrived in Tamriel in the First Era and occupied Hammerfell—driving out the Orsimer, as it happened—and immediately took their place as though it had been rightfully reserved for them since the dawn of time—and had ever since portrayed such unwavering confidence in their innate superiority to their fairer-skinned conspecifics that the latter seemed to be of half a mind to believe it as well. This was a stark contrast, of course, to the Orsimer—despised by even the Dunmer!

Although perhaps this in its way was precisely how the Orsimer wanted to be seen: the way they saw _themselves_.

The third quality the two races shared was of course that many of them distrusted magic. But this was where Bashnag found he had to cease his meditations.

Magic. Yes, beyond doubt: he _loathed_ it! And yet . . .

He grunted. Truly, how different was he from his brethren?

Suddenly once more engulfed within the dark cloud of his thoughts, he wondered what it was that had sparked these reveries. Yes, of course . . . the Alik'r warriors. A peculiar bunch, traditional to a fault even among their own people. They had not troubled Bashnag in the least as he'd ridden through their encampment, only stood there wordlessly staring at him. Those undecipherable looks, they had greatly bothered him, for they might have contained the deepest of contempt as much as some modicum of respect, and in either case he would have never known.

Be that as it may, the desert folk were well behind him now. They must have been the ones that the Nightingale had discussed with Queen Elisif. What business did they have in Skyrim?

 _Whatever it was, I can be reasonably sure it has nothing to do with me . . . and that's all I care to know_.

Bashnag's perfidious heart leapt when he spied the dark-clad figure ahead—standing by the road all alone, exuding utter lack of concern for virtually miles around. But the Orsimer couldn't tell whether it was gladness or dread which moved him. Most likely, as usual, it was a bit of both.

The Nightingale gave a tender smile as he saw, or at least when he decided to acknowledge, Bashnag's arrival. "Bashnag!" he said. "Punctual as ever, I see. Glad to see you, old friend."

Bashnag replied with a curt nod. "Boss." The horse came to a stop without prompting, parking itself by the Nightingale. Bashnag dismounted, glad to feel the ground underneath his feet again.

"And how went your visit? Ragnar got my message?"

A cold jab of something like shame. "Ah, yes sir. I . . . uh, delivered it to him."

"Good, good. Then he'll be following my instructions."

"Uh, sir."

"What is it, Bashnag?"

"He might, uh, have some difficulty at that."

The Imperial frowned. "Why is that?"

"Well, um,". . . _Sir, his bashed-in skull will surely prove to be a most significant hindrance_. "There was . . . an incident."

"Ah." The Nightingale's gaze traveled down to Bashnag's hands. With a distinct pang of shame, he realized he had not done a very careful job cleaning them. "Well, I'm sure you had your reasons."

The man spun around and started walking, drawing Bashnag and the horse into his tow. "No matter," he said nonchalantly. "Men like him are not difficult to replace."

Bashnag grunted.

The Nightingale slowed his stride, letting Bashnag pull up beside him. He then laid a hand over the Orsimer's shoulder. "Honestly, friend. You are the only one I could never substitute. You knew that, right?"

Bashnag was forced to meet the man's sincere gaze. He found out he could not bring himself to look away yet was unable to say anything either. So, to try to change the subject, he blurted, "How did the meeting go?" he asked, to an immediate blow of regret. He had crossed a line, even if he didn't know which. "Sir."

The Nightingale appeared genuinely surprised by the question. At least it caused him to remove his hand. "Oh, splendid," he said, "just splendid. In fact . . ." He stared ahead into the distance, suddenly abstracted. "It was rather . . . enlightening. Certainly opened new vistas."

Bashnag frowned at his boss's abrupt change of manner. Felt an inexplicable sense of dread. He swallowed a grunt. "What now, sir?"

"Hmmm?"

"Where are we going now?"

"Oh. Right. We are going to pay a visit to some of our men."

 _Great_.

Bashnag grunted.

"Don't worry, this shouldn't take long. I'm informed that my attention is needed on a minor detail, then we can be on our way. We have another meeting today still anyway."

Bashnag, of course, had no idea as to the nature of this meeting, but then they were all pretty much of equal nature: not good. And in any case, by this point he should have been beyond caring.

Should have been.

In a sullen mood, Bashnag followed his now mercifully silent chief up the winding mountain path, which took them up toward Nilheim, an ancient Nordic tower located on top of a cliff.

_I swear, out of all my miserable followers across generations, not one has come even close to your pathetic depths!_

_I do not follow you!_ Bashnag thought bitterly _. I never have. You can count yourself lucky that anyone does!_ He then heaved a quiet sigh. Despite the obvious hyperbole of his last words, there was some solid truth behind them.

Another sordid bit of the past.

One of the most controversial time-periods in Orsimer history were the years of the third Orsinium. The controversy in question owed its origin to the king of that particular realm, Gortwog gro-Nagorm, who had downright claimed Malacath a fake and instead revived the worship of Trinimac. Many, as one would guess, did not welcome such a change; but gro-Nagorm's talent in both war and diplomacy together with his undeniable skill at leadership kept insurrections at bay all through his regime.

This, however, had only lasted until after the sacking of the third Orsinium at the beginning of the Fourth Era. Unsurprisingly, there were many among their people who were eager to blame the catastrophe on gro-Nagorm's bold decision to eschew Malacath for Trinimac—and after this humiliating political defeat, and after he'd only barely managed to keep his own life, he was finally assassinated in a conspiracy including some of his closest men. Those men had included, to Bashnag's long-standing disgust, his own great-grandfather.

And so worship of Malacath was adopted once more, except for a small minority who continued to see the wisdom of gro-Nagorm's choice of god. Even after his hard struggle to get the Orsimer recognized by the wider Empire, his own had abandoned him in the end.

 _Unlike you, your forefathers have known what's good for them, that's plain to see._ Inside Bashnag's head, Malacath laughed a mocking laugh.

Finally they arrived at the soot-colored, slightly slanted old tower, outside of which resided a bandit camp. A small attachment of bandits met them there. In the middle stood a flat-faced man with long, matted hair defying his conspicuously receding hairline, whose grin at the Nightingale was more self-satisfied than obsequious. Still, the man went through the motions and bowed to his leader. Bashnag felt immediate, deep dislike for him.

"Sir, it is an honor," the vermin sibilated, "I am glad that you could reach us this soon."

"Yes," the Nightingale said, casting about. "I assure you I do not intend to waste too much time on this. Where is he?"

Keeping his pale serpent eyes on the Nightingale, the man waved a hand, and two of the surrounding bandits started out. The snake smiled with all his remaining filthy teeth. "He'll be right with us."

"Excellent," the Nightingale said, then stepped to the side, motioning Bashnag to follow. The ghost of a frown visited upon the creep's countenance but briefly.

"Should you find anything at all objectionable," the Nightingale murmured, "in yon Urik's conduct or countenance, pray do not let me stay your hand."

To his surprise, Bashnag found himself grinning. He had no shortage of objections, so he made a note to at least consider taking matters into his own hands should the opportunity knock. Not that he was planning to hang around the scumbag long enough.

Soon the two men returned with a third dragged between them. The third man was naked, his face purple with bruises, and across his body wounds and welts which had been poorly healed. The bandits hauled the man to their leader, who eyed him with obvious disgust—as if he had any place looking at anyone like that. They pushed him onto his knees at the dirtbag's feet, and as he tried to get up, the slime pushed him back down with a curse.

"Let the man stand!" the Nightingale said, and everyone made sure to promptly back down. Leaving the man alone, facing the most feared figure in Skyrim.

To his credit, the man, standing up as straight as seemed possible to him, showed impressive courage: levelly meeting the Nightingale's eye. Bloodstained long hair half stuck to his face. He snorted air though the nostrils of his broken nose and spat red mucus on the ground—not towards the Nightingale, but off to the side.

"So," the Nightingale said. "You're the one they say has been selling information for our enemies?"

The man said nothing, just stared unblinking.

"I must say." The Nightingale made a confused gesture. "I can't even say at this point who our enemy could even be. Can you tell me?"

Once again nothing. Bashnag found himself admiring this abused man, even if he knew nothing about him.

"No? Anyone?"

Silenced reigned, and at this point everyone made sure to avoid the Nightingale's sweeping gaze.

The Nightingale snorted. "So, what am I supposed to do with this?"

Silence. Shared unsure looks.

"Have you naught to say for yourself? They name you a traitor. Speak up!"

The man did not.

The Nightingale stared at him for what seemed like a small slice of eternity in the suffocating silence, only the faint breeze blowing through the craggy landscape. Then he sighed, hanging his head for a second, giving it a shake. "Very well." He swept aside his cloak, revealing a sheathed sword at his hip. He gave the man one more look, one more chance; and when the oddly stoic doomed bastard did not take it, the Nightingale unsheathed the blade.

Now it was Bashnag who wanted to look away. There was nothing all that remarkable about the weapon itself, a dark-gray, slightly curved and slender sword of the Akaviri style. It was the jet-black gem embedded into the bottom of the long handle which sent the cold shivers spiraling down his spine.

"Then you leave me with little choice," the Nightingale declared. "There can be no tolerance for disloyalty, no forgiveness for treachery! Our cause stretches far beyond the small boundaries of our everyday allegiances— _far_ beyond! How can we be expected to bring about a new order into this world alone, if we cannot even keep our own houses straight?" He was now addressing everyone, not just the lost soul in front of him. "There will be difficult times ahead us, make no mistake; and yet, the greater the hardship, the greater the glory that lies ahead!"

Bashnag struggled against the desire to close his eyes as well as his ears. The Nightingale's words churned his insides.

The Nightingale stepped forward and readied the sword, pressing the single-edged blade lightly against the man's neck. The man offered no resistance. "I offered you a chance to defend yourself, and you rejected it. I take that as an admission of guilt. May the power far above me judge you fittingly. Seek his forgiveness, his blessing. Surrender your soul to him! Long reign our father! Let his will be done!" He drew the blade back, and the man closed his eyes. "HAIL SITHIS!"

A quick, neat swing and the man's head came clean off his shoulders, rolling off to the side. Blood squirting out of the neck, the body sank down onto its knees, tottering there for some moments before collapsing.

The Nightingale inspected his handiwork, then nodded.

As he then went to clean the blade, Bashnag took the chance to turn away.

He had been a little surprised by how the man had done nothing to defend himself, but not at all by the Nightingale showing so little concern for the specifics. He could not have very well gotten to the bottom of every dispute and accusation, but he would need to be ruthless in handing out sanctions for transgressions. After all, it was fear that kept people loyal to him, not justice. It was also important for his men to see from time to time that he would personally step in to set things straight.

They had certainly been shown here today. Everyone present would think twice before doing anything to risk earning his displeasure.

Again, Bashnag shivered as he thought about that dark gem.

_Poor bastard. Bless his soul—though gods know that's not going to do it any good._

* * *

By the time they got to Whiterun, Runa still hadn't the slightest idea of what they were going to do. But she decided to not let it get to her. Things would work out, as they tended to do. Runa Fair-Shield always came out the winner in the end.

_You keep counting on that. . ._

They approached Whiterun at their ease, Runa riding ahead with her spine held straight and head high as was her way, the boys following on foot, walking their horses and lugging the chest in between them. Scraps of cloud had blessedly started to crop up and were doing their best to stave off some of the blaring sun, but the humidity was still too much for Runa's tastes. Humidity this time of year in Skyrim? Who'd even heard of such a thing!

Her face glowing with entrenched confidence as though she were returning with glorious spoils of war, Runa approached the Khajiit camp. Not a trace of the gnawing sense of dread she felt seeped through her impeccable façade.

She was in way over her head here! And while a part of her exalted in such a bold pushing of the envelope, the audacious dare she'd taken upon herself, she could not entirely stifle the quite natural odd compunction that ever so occasionally entered her head.

 _Only you, foolish girl, can look at plunging headlong into your own death in such terms_.

Runa frowned. It was almost as though the last thought had been spoken in the voice of her mother. Her birthing one, not the—

_Never mind that!_

A handful of Khajiit met them by the yurt. Runa stopped and gave them a little nod, then turned toward the approaching boys. A ray of sun chose that moment to poke through the meager smattering of clouds, and she had to raise a hand to shield her eyes. The men's expressions didn't exactly mirror hers.

Shrugging, she flashed a grin down at the Khajiit, then dismounted. "Greetings, my furry friends," she said, electing to ignore their scowls. "We had, as expected, a successful quest."

One of the cats jerked his frowning face at the chest, which her men now set to the ground. "What's in there?" he grated.

 _I would have bet the chopped up remains of your kin, but it ain't heavy enough for those_. "No idea," she replied. "But it's for you."

The Khajiit glowered at her, then motioned at the chest, barking an order to his buddies in their own language. The other two promptly went to retrieve the box and started carrying it into the yurt. "You," the leading cat then said, addressing Runa and the boys. "You better come along as well." It sounded an awful lot like a command, but Runa chose to overlook it.

They pressed into the stuffy tent, where Dra'Ajira—and Ashni-do this time as well, she noted with pleasure—was waiting with barely held anxiousness. Still, the old feline played her part remarkably well, fooling perhaps everyone but Runa.

Tearing her wary eyes from the chest, Dra'Ajira nodded a greeting. "Well met. This one is glad to see you safe and sound. And yet . . ." She faced the chest again. "What have you brought us?"

_We're about to find out, aren't we?_

* * *

The scene back at the bandit camp had done nothing to improve Bashnag's mood. He had always hated violence, doubly so when committed on defenseless victims. Many men he'd known had been the exact opposite. Plenty of women too, to be fair.

He gave his head a doleful shake blessedly missed by the Nightingale, yet had the mental fortitude to suppress a sigh. How much longer was he willing to put himself through this?

He closed his eyes. The answer was obvious: until it killed him.

"Boss," he found himself saying.

They were making good time walking westward. The sun had been temporarily blocked by the meager clouds. Truth be told, Bashnag had hardly even taken notice of the exceptionally hot weather. These days he always seemed to feel cold no matter what.

"Yes?" asked the brutal murderer who was his charge, smiling gently, the picture of urbane affability.

"The prisoner," Bashnag said. "I've been thinkin'—"

"Ah! Never mind that," the Nightingale cut in. "That has already been dealt with."

Bashnag raised a brow at the man—and if a gesture could be an understatement, he thought that one might have been the mother of them all. "Has it?"

* * *

 

Runa could not deny the tickle of curiosity as she, along with everyone else, leaned just a little bit closer as the male Khajiit picked the chest's lock. The telltale click, and the latch flung open. The Khajiit gave those around a look, as though to seek for their blessing to throw the lid open.

Dra'Ajira gave a nod.

* * *

 

"Indeed it has," replied the Nightingale happily. "So there's no need to revisit that." He must have caught Bashnag's confoundedness, as he went on. "I made sure the Khajiit understand that they better think carefully on how they wish to carry on. Reminded them, if you will, of who they're dealing with."

The confoundedness soon grew into a cold horror wrapping itself tight around Bashnag's heart. "What did you do?"

The Nightingale glanced over, as if perplexed about the Orsimer's sudden bout of loquacity, or perhaps by his audacious tone. "I sent them a little gift."

He knew he ought to not ask. He was certain he did not want to know.

"What gift, sir?"

* * *

The lid swung open, and the almost immediate reaction of the anxious onlookers was first a collective gasp, then a quick step backward. More than one Khajiit averted their eyes, hands over mouth. There was some moaning and cursing. Sobs.

Runa felt next to nothing. She was not, in fact, surprised in the least. And yet she, too, found herself closing her eyes.

* * *

The Nightingale smiled. "A nice fur coat."

* * *

Pressing silence reigned inside the yurt. Runa would have welcomed the silence for giving her room to think, had she only known what it was that she should've been thinking about.

The lid had been slammed close not long after the revelation of the chest's macabre contents. Most were still careful not to look at the container at all. Only Runa stared hard at the worn wooden surface. Not that she was really seeing it, gaze as she did beyond it into the void that was her own mind. She was certain there was something she should be thinking about! But that certainty offered no help in conjuring that something.

" _Monsters_!" one Khajiit hissed, at last breaking the silence. He was met with no reply, yet no doubt his sentiment was shared by most present.

_I wonder . . ._

_You wonder what!_

Runa narrowed her eyes. _What does all this make me?_

"This—" Dra'Ajira grated, still staring at the ground in front of herself. She raised her eyes, brimming with subdued pain, at her brethren. "—was not entirely unexpected."

Runa cocked an eyebrow at what she took for surprising callousness in the elder's words, but the other Khajiit seemed to have no trouble expecting the poignancy of her assessment.

" _Fool_ ," hissed the male Khajiit. Once more, to no objection or vocal endorsement.

 _Fool!_ Runa thought. _Yes, I think that might just be it._

* * *

If the Nightingale noticed, and Bashnag saw no reason to think he did not, his bodyguard halting his steps for a few heartbeats, he paid it no attention. The man kept a steady pace on his springy step and did not stop to wait or ask what was wrong.

And after a moment, Bashnag started moving again. His head hanging down and eyes squeezed shut for a moment before he recaptured his ordinary stance.

It had nothing to do with him, he recalled. So there was no reason to feel upset. No reason to feel anything at all.

And so he decided not to.

 _How long, I wonder_ , he thought as he trudged after his master, _can you walk side by side with monsters—gods forbid,_ love _them—before you find yourself becoming one?_

* * *

"Better not to even contemplate that," Runa muttered.

"What?" Rusty demanded.

She glanced over. Shook her head. "Never mind."

Above, the clouds now displayed heroic fortitude in trying to curb the sun. Seemed to only make the air more suffocating, and Runa could not decide if she'd rather be roasted or steamed to death. In any case, she supposed, death would at least do her the favor of liberating her from her current predicament.

_Always trying to shirk responsibility, aren't you?_

Runa shrugged. She wasn't going to die just yet, so she might as well focus on doing what she did best.

She'd best get to kill someone—and soon!

"So. What now?" asked Hroar.

"What now," Runa replied. "You heard Dra'Ajira back there, this changes nothing."

He studied her a moment, then nodded.

"So we go look for Vigrod?" Rusty enquired.

"We go look for Vigrod," Runa confirmed.

He nodded in turn.

Runa appreciated the way they'd both taken to accepting her word with so few of their own. She knew there was no way it would last.

They went to gather their horses.

Rusty grunted. "So that's it, huh?"

"What's what?" Runa asked, unhitching Frost.

"Someone gets literally fleeced and we barely bat an eye."

"Yeah, so?"

"So . . . I don't know. Just makes you think."

"Speak for yourself." She paused, sighed. "What, if I may ask, does it make you think?"

He studied her, then shook his head. "Nothing. Forget it."

Runa shrugged. "Will do."

Yet, after they'd ridden for a few minutes, headed southwest, Rusty spoke again. "You know," he said tentatively, "do you ever wonder: we've spent so long fighting monsters—maybe on some level . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Runa cut in. She spat. "Make no mistake: _I'm_ the one who decides what I become and when. I've spent my share of time staring into the abyss, and lemme tell ya, the damn thing's still as blind as a bat."

" _The blind idiot god_ ," Rusty replied after a spell.

"Huh?"

"Sithis. That's how a priest of . . . well, _one_ of the, described him to me once. The blind and deaf lord of the Void. We'd been drinking for . . . a while."

"Yeah, well," Runa said with a shrug. "I wouldn't know nothing 'bout no priestly stuff."

"Let's not talk about Sithis," said Hroar.

"What?" Rusty asked. "Are you scared?"

The big man replied with a glare.

"I, for one, am fine with dispensing with gods and other spooky stuff," Runa said. "Never cared too much for that. What I can see, hear, touch, and taste has served me fine this far."

"Emphasis on taste," Rusty said.

"Do you ever shut your mouth?"

Rusty snorted, with a wordlessly added, _look who's talking_.

Be that as it may, he did then shut his mouth. Runa had, however, by this point already given up on trying to think.

But at least it was quiet.

* * *

"Where are we going now?" Bashnag asked. "Sir."

The Nightingale showed no sign of being in any way fazed by the bodyguard's inquiry. Perhaps he had already grown accustomed to this new bold and chatty Bashnag. "One more important meeting for the day," he said.

That was just great. Bashnag could hardly wait to see what miserable bastards they would still be required to meet. He grunted.

"Yes, I'm afraid. It is the Jarl that requests our attendance."

Bashnag just barely caught the groan. As if he hadn't yet seen enough repugnant lowlifes for one day!

"I know, I know. But I promise that shall be it for a while. And after this, I promise you, there'll be a treat."

That, if possible, made Bashnag's anxiety even worse. He grunt—

"Oh, I wouldn't get too excited, Bashnag. It's nothing special. But it's something a little different, I can tell you that. There should be an adventure waiting for us in the hopefully near future!"

Bashnag could not decide which of the bits of information contained in the Nightingale's words caused him the most displeasure. _I suppose it's the combined effect that really counts_. He closed his eyes and breathed deep.

The air felt thick and heavy in his lungs.


	13. Miserable Bastards

Cold and miserable. That was the most apt description to spring to Bashnag's mind, depicting with minute accuracy both Jarl Black-Briar and this dark stone horror in which she kept her court. It wasn't that the place itself much differed from other keeps, but somehow the joint effect of the place and its mistress had a most poignant effect on his already chafed soul.

To be sure, he would have gladly strangled the bitch where she stood.

Or, to be more exact, sat. The old woman had the most curious way of slouching on her throne, lackadaisical beyond even the usual lazy arrogance of the ruling class, conveying the impression that it was only through her limitless sense of mercy that she deigned to see you. Not that Maven Black-Briar was known for her mercy. In fact, the mere notion was laughable.

The lady was by no means the lone representation of utter dourness in the room. She'd surrounded herself with an impressive gallery of other most wretched looking bastards. A collection of guards and courtly lackeys, closer examination of which Bashnag deliberately neglected. His mood was already dark enough as it was, and he was too busy pretending he was anywhere but here. And yet he had to continue looking sufficiently menacing and attentive next to his master.

Luckily he'd had more than enough practice.

The Nightingale remained, of course, utterly untouched by any of this. He stood in front of the Jarl's throne in precisely the same way he conducted himself in all situations: with utter lack of concern or perturbation. And, of course, he wasn't the one here with any reason for such feelings. No, it was that row of carefully constructed stone-faces staring down at him from the shallow wooden platform that hid all the unease in the room—barring Bashnag's of course, but his was of a different breed.

There were perhaps only two people whose unconcern did not seem wholly studied. There was Maven herself—jaded and callous, no doubt, already when the Nightingale had been born—and the small woman with the heart-shaped face standing off to the side whose expression seemed fixed in a permanent state of bemusement. There was something to that one in particular which made him not want to let his eyes linger overlong.

Yet he found that his eyes seemed to keep wanting to return to the Jarl herself.

Her appearance was certainly a thing of utmost curiosity. It was almost as if her body had reached a limit some decade or two ago after which it had simply refused to age any further. For a wonder, her hair still retained most of its natural dark; and although her face was riddled with deep furrows, she still somehow rather came across as a particularly worn-out woman in her middle years than the twenty or thirty years older grandmother that she was. _Perhaps the hag has found the fountain of youth_.

That fountain, quite possibly, stood a couple paces behind the throne, with his arms bunched in front of him like a sulking child. Not that the blond man in particular likely possessed any special qualities—in fact, he sort of had the look of a simpleton—but rather his representative species, which Maven was known to bed with staggering frequency. In fact, that this one had been around for several years already was a small miracle. _Perhaps there is more to him than meets the eye_.

It did not seem likely.

"So kind you could be with us with such a short notice," the Jarl said, brandishing a skeletal hand with obvious irony. Her voice was as resonant and her infliction as polished as ever, her delivery that of a lurking snake.

"When I receive a word you request my attendance, Maven," the Nightingale said, "I _fly_."

The Jarl snorted, smiling without humor.

The Nightingale showed her a terrible, wide smile. "And, I may add, I had some things to discuss with you as well, so your summoning couldn't have come at a more opportune time."

"Ah, well that's a lovely coincidence, then."

"Isn't it just?"

"What was it that you wished to share with me?"

The Nightingale gave a courteous bow. "Please," he said, "you first, I insist."

The Jarl's eyes narrowed a hint as she took a moment. "Very well," she said then. It sounded as though it took her a great deal of effort to conceal her irritation as poorly as she did.

The Nightingale waited at his ease, smiling contentedly.

"On a less urgent, but no less irksome matter," Maven said, "There seems to be a complement of Redguards from Hammerfell who have made camp in my territory quite unbidden."

The Nightingale nodded. "Yes."

"What is that supposed to mean, _yes_?"

"Yes, as in, yes I know."

"You know?"

"Indeed. In fact, and this will amuse you I'm sure, that was also one of the things I came here to talk to you about!"

Maven did not seem amused. "Don't you think," she said icily, "that I would be aware of such a thing already? How little credit do you give me for—?"

"No, no, you misunderstand me," the Nightingale said. "I'd no doubt you'd be well aware of them. I came to tell you this: they are to be left alone."

"Really? And why, if I may ask?"

"You may ask. You well know you may _always_ ask."

Jarl Black-Briar scowled. "And you're not going to tell me."

"I would very much like to. Believe me. The problem is, I cannot."

"Why not?"

He smiled so sweetly it was almost believable. "I do not know the answer."

Maven frowned, then leaned back on her chair with her chin pressed against the back of one hand. "Curious," she mused.

"Isn't it? The thing is, I do not know what they are doing in Skyrim, but I would very much like to find out. And I'm afraid that we'll never find out by accosting them."

"That answers my original question, doesn't it? I simply wanted to know why I'm not supposed to chase them out!"

The Nightingale replied with a vague gesture, and Maven breathed out in frustration. Could it be that this was what he'd been after in the first place?

"So what, I'm just supposed to let them do what they want?"

"I suspect they will not bother you," the Nightingale said, "provided you do not bother them."

Maven's eyes narrowed.

"Don't worry, dear Maven. I suspect they shall be on their way soon enough."

"How in the world do you know that?"

The Nightingale studied the irate woman with an enigmatic smile on his lips. "Call it a hunch."

The Jarl closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"There is another thing."

The Jarl opened her eyes. "What other thing?"

"You tell me," the Nightingale said. "You're the one who has it."

"Yes," the Jarl extended a hand to the side, and a toady rushed to place a goblet of wine in it. She took a liberal draught and then, instead of returning the goblet into the toady's waiting hand, tossed it over her shoulder. The cup clattered onto the floor, and another toady rushed to gather it up and to wipe the splattered wine. Jarl Maven smiled at the Nightingale. Not a pretty smile. "There is another thing indeed."

"Pray do not keep me in suspense."

Bashnag struggled to keep his deportment impassive. The urges to roll his eyes and shake his head were almost unbearable. This was in many ways like a rerun of the meeting the Nightingale had had with the High Queen—that is, if the High Queen had been a rapidly unraveling, chronically psychotic septuagenarian.

"I know that there is someone after your head."

"Is there, now?"

"Indeed there is."

"Hardly unusual, I'd say."

"It's one thing to want you dead." Maven paused, and Bashnag could not tell whether it was supposed to be significant. "And quite another to be actively seeking it."

_Like the difference between contemplating suicide and actually committing it_ , Bashnag thought.

The Nightingale nodded. "Granted."

"Now, I have it from reliable sources that the person with their sights set on you is quite committed to achieving their objectives."

"Admirable."

"And, while I have some serious suspicions as to the identity of this person, I cannot yet for certain say—"

"Runa Fair-Shield," the Nightingale said.

Silence. The expression of the small woman standing at the sidelines darkening further.

"Excuse me?" asked Maven.

"The name of the person hunting me," the Nightingale said. "Runa Fair-Shield. Correct?"

Maven slouched back on her throne. "Very amusing."

"Moderately," the Nightingale conceded. "Yet I would by no means treat the matter lightly."

Maven sniffed "You afraid of her?"

The Nightingale studied the Jarl. "Aren't _you_?"

Now Maven's expression darkened. She scowled. "Runa Fair-Shield has ever been a gnat on my ass."

"Really? Do tell."

"I'd rather not get into it," she said sourly. "Point is, I've been wanting the bitch out of the way for some time."

"And what's been stopping you?"

"You know," Maven said. "I couldn't really even tell—"

"You couldn't," the Nightingale cut in, and smiled. "But I could."

Maven spread out her hands, clearly hiding her irritation. "I'm all ears."

"For you, she's been a necessary evil."

"How is she necessary?" Maven huffed.

"I said _has_ been. Having her around has simply brought you benefit worth more than the possible nuisance she's caused. Thus far."

Maven considered. "Alright. I'm willing to entertain that. Yet you think that time is coming to a close?"

"I believe that the hour is upon us when we must weigh carefully what kind of order we wish to maintain in our shared word."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"What to keep," the Nightingale said, gesturing. "What to throw away."

In the ensuing spell of silence Bashnag could virtually hear the gears grinding in the Jarl's head. This man, he realized, was perhaps the only person in Maven Black-Briar's world whom she had ever feared. Save, perhaps, this Runa Fair-Shield.

"What do you suggest?" she finally said.

The Nightingale smiled. "I'm glad you asked."

* * *

"I'm telling ya!" Gunnar Ill-Shod had the urgent tone to perfectly accompany his characteristic bulging, chronically bloodshot eyes. "She wouldn't let me go. All night, I'm sayin'. All bloody night!"

"That's the worst excuse I've heard in my life, and I was about certain I'd scraped the bottom of that barrel!" Vidgun the Knife looked about ready to whip out his titular weapon. "You have to knock a whore out to get a go, and she'll still take all your money! Ain't no woman in her right mind—or even one out of it!—gonna take in that crooked little pecker of yours voluntarily!"

"Speak for yourself! That's fuckin' rich comin' from a—"

"SHUT UP!"

The eyes of everyone around the fire then went to Big Sigar, who again sat silently in their midst—having uttered the one thing he was known for, in exactly the sort of situation which typically triggered it. A mostly calm man, he, but hated people arguing. And people around him tended to argue quite a bit. So in the end he wasn't calm very often, or at least very long at a stretch. And once he got mad, it was almost as if the damn man grew to twice his honestly rather average size, and that's where he'd gotten his name. At moments like this, he was Big Sigar. At other moments, well, Sigar was just Sigar.

In any case, he had a knack for making bastards shut their yapping mouths.

In the silence of only the snapping, hissing fire, Thorgir the Meathead slowly shook his huge, shaggy head. "You ain't learned nothing, have you? Last time—"

"Last time," Gunnar Il-Shod began urgently, then he, along with the others, gave Big Sigar a furtive a glace. When the man said nothing, just kept staring at the fire, Gunnar continued. "Last time it was half as many of us, and we was completely unprepared. This time, we've solid intelligence on the—"

Haming the Dragonslayer snorted.

It was a comical sight when Gunnar's big eyes narrowed. "Somethin' funny about that? Snorting at me, ya loon? Huh?"

"Let him be," Thorgir said.

"Yeah," echoed Bjorick son of Bjorick, poking at his teeth with the tip of a dagger. "You've gotta admit that it's funny hearing you and _intelligence_ crammed into the same sentence."

Somewhat half-hearted rounds of laughter at that.

After some venomous ogling at Bjorick, Gunnar switched to Thorgir. "And you, why do you always insist on draggin' the dregs of the Rift on these quests of yours?"

"Like yourself?" the man replied.

Another round of laughs, a bit more enthusiastic. Honestly, it seemed a bit as if they were already tired of always laughing at Gunnar. And who could blame them?

But the man would not relent. "Need I remind you—?"

"Evening, gentlemen!"

Runa smirked at the warriors—most jumping at her sudden appearance, some already fumbling for their weapons—as she stepped out of the darkness into the circle of light. "I'm told," she said, "there's a group of nefarious bandits hiding nearby who's been terrorizing the area, but that, not to worry, a team of most competent bounty-hunters are on the case . . . but what do I find here, a bunch of drunken stooges, tripping over your cocks trying to decide who the biggest ass is. Well, let me help clear things up for you: it's a tie if there ever was one."

Thorgir the Meathead grinned. "Well, well, well. If it ain't Runa Fair-Shield."

"None other."

"What brings you out here to pay us old dogs a visit?"

Runa shrugged. "Can't a girl just happen across some friends in the middle of the woods in the dead of night?"

Haming the Dragonslayer snorted.

"Sure sure, Runa," said Thorgir with a laugh. "I'm sure that's all this is."

She let her eye circle the troupe of scruffy men seated on the square of logs surrounding the drastically oversized fire. Not much for stealth, were these bandit-hunters.

There were nine of them altogether. There was the Meathead, the leader, as well-fed as ever. There was Haming with that mad gleam in the ice-blue eyes staring out of that weathered face. There were Bjorick, Sigar, and Jorun Threehands, the inseparable odd-couple Gunnar and Bjorick, and there was Vidgun the Knife, whom no one trusted let alone liked, but who nevertheless always seemed to tag along.

In short, a real bunch of winners.

As Runa's gaze then settled on the gaunt features of Vigrod the Gimp, seated inconspicuously in the fold of other more conspicuous men, she nodded a greeting. The man met her eyes warily and flashed an even warier grin, nodding back.

"Back already, are ya, Gimpy?" she said.

Vigrod gave a nervous laugh, then looked like he was going to say something.

"Aye," interposed Thorgir the Meathead. "We've been back for a couple days now."

"We?" Runa asked. "I was not aware you were gone as well?"

The big man bellowed a laugh. "Go on and act as if you weren't on your tiptoes the whole time, counting days for my return."

"You tell yourself whatever you need to get through the day."

He bellowed another laugh. "I think I'll be doing just that!"

"So," Runa said, trying again to address the shiftier man. "Where were you, exactly? I hear rumors of High Rock"

But the Meathead went first again. "Iliac Bay, to be more exact," he said. "Got to know the area quite well." He murmured a laugh. "Quite well, indeed."

Runa rolled her eyes at the untidy fellow. "I take it you're waiting for a clarifying question?"

He feigned an indifferent shrug. "If you like."

Runa rolled her eyes again, shoving Joric and Sigar apart so as to seat herself in between them. "So what did you learn?"

"Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. It's too early to talk about it, tell you the truth. But I'll tell ya, things are gonna happen there soon."

"Things. What things?"

"Big things, Runa. Big things. You'll see. A few years. Be sure to be on the lookout."

She just barely suppressed a _pfft_. For though a fabulist bastard the man might have been, he was also a _contentiou_ s fabulist bastard. And she wasn't in the mood for arguing. She shrugged. "I'll be sure to do that. So . . ." She rubbed her hands together and let her eye circle the gallery of miserable bastards. "Is no one gonna offer the lady a drink?"

Barely had she finished that question before a jug of disgusting swill was shoved into her hand. She was careful not to wince as she took a big swig.

Thorgir cast a searching eye into the surrounding gloom. "You come by alone?"

"Not quite," Runa said as she finished a long draught, keeping the stuff down with heroic effort. "Alright boys, you can step out!"

Without much delay, out of the darkness stepped Hroar and Rusty. The former, his usual surly self, let a curt nod suffice for opening, but the widely grinning Rusty brandished his arm to encompass the band and bowed. "Good evening, one and all," he said.

Thorgir the Meathead grunted. "Well. No surprises here."

"Surprises, as you know," Runa said, "are best left for your enemies."

"True, that." Thorgir briefly eyed Rusty with the usual sprinkle of distaste and sniffed. Then he grinned at Hroar. "Hroar, big guy. Been keeping yourself busy, have you?"

"The wicked take no holidays," Hroar said.

"Well." The Meathead barked a laugh. "You ain't changed."

"I'm at war," Hroar said. "And war never changes. Why should I?"

Could be Thorgir found in that reply something to respect, or then his nodding of apparent approval was just for show.

"So," Runa said, reaching out to snatch the jug out of the hand of Sigar next to her, "What you lads up to on this lovely evening? Bandit-hunting?"

"Aye," said Haming the Dragonslayer sitting on the log opposite to her. "Feiri Half-foot's gang, a notorious band of highway bandits. They've been causing their share of trouble to the good people of Whiterun. They say the bunch defies the Nightingale hisself! Devious bastards, they are, but we're onto them. Got 'em pinned down, traced to their base o' operation. They've a surprise coming!"

"I bet," Runa said. "I've heard of them, of course. Elusive is the word I hear passed around. So, you fellas done outwitted them then?"

"You bet!" The man of dubious mental health grinned with evident pride.

"Impressive." Runa shrugged. "But then you do strike me as fellows whose wits are tightly knit"

Gunnar Ill-Shod regarded her with narrowed eyes. "What's that supposed to mean, Fair-Shield?"

"Oh, gods!" She looked up into the dark heavens, stars mostly blocked by cloud. "What I was _trying_ to do was to underhandedly call you guys a bunch of nitwits. Must you deprive me this pleasure too with your thick-headedness?"

"Have you ever considered," said Vidgun the Knife, "that you'd never get away with such lip as you do if you didn't have a cunt?"

"Your point being?"

There was more than a little bit of hostility in the serpent-like man's lack of response.

"You know, you're a handsome woman, Runa," said Thorgir.

"And you know you're a butt-ugly damn pig. What of it?"

Thorgir boomed with laugher. "Well, fellas are more likely to overlook some of your more . . . disagreeable qualities if they think there's even a slight chance you could share a bed with them."

"How long have you known me? Have you ever seen me play hard to get?"

"Fair enough."

"If I may," Rusty said. He and Hroar had found seats around the fire. "Even at the risk of sounding like a toady, I think you gents are selling Runa here short."

"And how's that?" Thorgir asked with some undertones of condescendence.

"Well," said the unfazed man, "While I'm sure there's a dose of truth in you assessment regarding her . . . well, _philanderous_ qualities, and that is sure to change how many men—women too, let's not forget—regard her overall, it's not only this that affords her special liberties—you know, in respect of the relative freedom she tends to enjoy wagging her tongue as she pleases—no innuendo intended!"

"What in Oblivion are you on about again, you jabbering git?" demanded Bjorick son of Bjorick.

"I'm simply saying that I believe we all agree that Runa Fair-Shield is certainly formidable enough in her own right to earn her the privilege to run her mouth more or less as she pleases."

There was a moment of silence as everyone seemed to weigh on Rusty's undeniably wise if needlessly verbose speech.

Once again, Thorgir the Meathead rumbled a laugh. "She's a gods-damned one woman slaughterhouse, that's what she is!"

"Really now," said Runa with feigned modesty, "you flatter me."

"Let's not forget," Gunnar said, "that none of us have gotten to where we are on our own. And that goes for her as well. She'd never've earned her reputation without all the help folks like us have given her over the years."

Runa shrugged. "That's me—standing on the shoulders of pissants."

"You're pushing it, Fair-Shield," snarled Vidgun.

"And what exactly are you planning to do about it?" asked Runa, leaning forward.

The mood suddenly turned weighty as the two stared at each other: Vidgun with a glower, Runa with a small grin spiked with a well-practiced edge.

"You have to forgive old Vidgun," Thorgir then said jovially. "See, it's been a while since he last seen a whore, and gods know that tends to set him on edge."

Laughter at that, from everyone except the butt of the joke himself, who briefly stared daggers at his leader—though not enough to risk the big man's ire.

"Quite unlike Gunnar here," Thorgir continued, slapping the man in question on the back. "He's been satisfied so thoroughly, why, he can even think lucid for a change!"

Gunnar did his best to act as though he was in on the joke.

"At least for the time being," Runa noted.

"It's that five seconds of clarity you gain right after you've blown your load," Thorgir said. "It's a thing of wonder!"

Runa snorted. "Honestly, such a large proportion of a man's psyche seems to be dominated by his cock, it's quite frightening to imagine what might be left the second after he's blown it."

"A big damn mess, for one!"

Everyone laughed. Even the sulky Vidgun flashed a half-grin.

From then on, Runa did her best to keep the mood and the conversation innocuous. If that meant overlooking some offhand comments and thus losing some of her edge, so be it. The goal here was to stay on good terms with everyone, including that insufferable bonehead Thorgir the Knife, who in all honesty she'd rather run through and leave for the wolves but hey—she'd doubtless have ample opportunity for that in the future. So she could forget it for now.

While shooting her mouth and drinking, she was careful to observe as well. Not that there was much to be gauged from most present. Theirs was a fairly predictable lot, and she had little interest in any of them. Save for Vigrod, of course, and it was him that she kept a furtive eye on. The man seemed more jittery than usual, and more than once their eyes met over the fire. At those times, Runa gave him a grin, followed by him quickly looking away. Could be that the job ahead was getting on his nerves; he was, after all, not exactly the fiercest fighter present, never mind what tall tales he liked to spin from time to time.

What she was looking for was an opening. She needed to talk to the man alone, find out what he knew about the Nightingale.

_Maybe that's why he's acting all weird. He must know it's him I'm here for. But why would that make him all jumpy like that? Gods, maybe he thinks I'm after him! Nah, that's stupid. On the other hand . . ._

Runa did her best to stop overthinking it. She'd just need a chance to talk to him, and then they could be on their way.

Finally, Vigrod the Gimp rose from his seat, and without word walked off to the side. It was the opening she'd been looking for: every drinking man had to piss sooner or later!

Fortunately, he appeared to be the bashful type, and elected to walk further out to throw his water. Runa waited for as long as seemed appropriate, and then nonchalantly rose and walked after him.

A good rock's throw away, Vigrod stood by some bushes with a hissing spray shooting out of his thingy.

"Runa," he said. "Come here to hold it for me?" His manner was a lot bolder now that it was just the two of them.

"Came here to get some information."

"Is that so?" Vigrod finished pissing, then turned to her, grinning, with cock still in hand. "And what are you willing to do for that info?"

Runa stepped right up close to him and smiled.

As his smile faltered. "Is that . . ."

"Yes, that's a knife underneath your pecker. And it ain't blunt. Now, 'less you wanna squat down to piss henceforth, be a good boy now and give me what I want."

"Coercion. That isn't like you."

"How would you even know what's me and what isn't?"

Vigrod considered. "Fair point. Now, what, precisely, did you need to know?"

"The Nightingale."

"What about him?"

Runa shrugged. "Anything will do. It's bound to be more than I already know. I've got a pressing need to learn as much about him as I can as soon as I can, and I'm told by reliable sources that you're the one to turn to."

"Really? Now who, might I ask—"

"You mightn't. What kind of a fool gives up her sources?"

He grunted. "The same sort of fool who takes on a job offing the Nightingale?"

"See, that's exactly the kinda stuff that earns you your reputation. Now, you better now pretend you don't know about—"

"I know some things. What do you need?"

"Anything, at this point. Perhaps most urgently: where can I find him?"

Vigrod snorted.

"What is supposed to be so funny about that?"

"Generally, _you_ don't find _him_ but the other way around. Better yet if he never need find you—I'm sure you know what I mean."

"Yeah, yeah. Well, you understand my situation is a little bit different than usual."

"I'll say."

Runa raised the knife a hint. "Are you going to be of some use to me or not?"

Vigrod paled. "Okay, okay. No need to get touchy."

"Where can I find him?"

"There are no certainties . . . look, I'm telling, I'm telling! Listen," Vigrod stole a glance about. "His main base of operations is at Fort Dawnguard."

"Heard that rumor before."

"Well, it's no rumor." He glanced around again. "Listen," he whispered. "Here's something no rumor will tell you: it's located in a hidden valley within the Velothi Mountains, near the border of Morrowind. There's a passage leading there."

"I've heard that," Runa said.

Vigrod's eyebrows rose. "You have?"

Runa shrugged. "You can't prove I haven't."

He stared at her for a few frowning seconds, then shook his head. "Anyway, that's what I know."

"So how about this passage?"

"Your guess is as good as— ugh, I swear I don't know. But it should lie somewhere along the path to the Morrowind gate, in the Rift. It's not easy to find but persistence and a bit of luck ought to get you there."

Runa narrowed her eyes.

"I swear that's all I have! The man's elusive, is the natural conclusion. The passage is your best bet."

"You can come along and help me, then."

"Now, I'm afraid that won't do. Stop, Runa, you're gonna make a cut! I swear, I'll be of no use. I've never been there, all I have is— well, basically rumor."

"I could always use another pair of eyes."

"Alas, I have my duty with Thorgir. A debt. He'll never let me leave here in the middle of a job, not alive!"

Runa considered. The man hadn't exactly given her much. Certainly she had hoped for more. But she could feel it in her gut that he was telling her the truth.

She removed the knife, flashing a grin. "Thanks," she said. "No hard feelings."

"Oh, you know I can't stay mad—"

"What I mean," she cut in, "is I'm willing to overlook the shit you tried to pull. This once." She took a glance at his member. Not small. "Perhaps you can make it up to me later, huh?" She gave the thing a gentle bouncing with the blunt edge.

And she walked away, wiping the knife on her breeches leg before tucking it underneath her belt.

* * *

"Your plan sounds solid," Jarl Maven conceded after some consideration. "But first we have to figure out where—"

"The next whereabouts," the Nightingale said, "of Runa Fair-Shield are more or less known to me."

The old woman raised a thin eyebrow. "Aye? And may I, perchance, inquire . . ."

"You may always—"

"Forget it!" Maven abruptly rose from her throne with a wave of a peeved hand. "I'd have more luck wringing out answers from an eel."

The Nightingale smiled.

"My people will do the talking for me, lay out what plan you have in that head of yours. I need only know that we shall soon have one problem less plaguing us. They can deal with the nuts and bolts."

And without further ado, Maven Black-Briar marched through the doorway behind the throne. Without a sideways glance she waved at the young man, and he followed as would a loyal dog behind its mistress.

The jovial Nightingale then conglomerated with Maven's unctuous court, each member of which seemed rightly put on edge by the squat yet overawing man. The only one from whom Bashnag could not detect such emotions was the small woman who unhesitatingly joined the congress. As his eyes briefly met with hers, an immediate shiver ran through him, and he was compelled to promptly look away.

He suppressed a grunt.

_What miserable company I keep!_


	14. Distractions

"I don't think that it's wholly unreasonable," said Rusty in his ingratiating way, "to expect a simple answer to a simple question."

Runa grunted.

"Yes, of course. How silly of me. But of course it's unreasonable."

"I hate to take his side," Hroar said, "and I mean it. But Rusty's right. You've scarcely said a word all morning."

Runa grunted.

Hroar threw up his hands, dropping his horse back to Rusty's pace.

Runa had woken in a downright foul mood. They had declined the invitation to join the band of bandit-hunters and decided there was no need to head back to the city, either, so they'd made camp in the wilderness. She had slept terribly. Now, as she rode a good few horses ahead of the boys, she wanted to get down to kick at every stupid boulder and clump of snow in her path. Not that it was their fault, but then again, who could say that it wasn't. Far as she was concerned, the whole universe had decided to align itself to pull one over on her, so every part of it was suspect in her book. At least the sun had the good sense of not showing its face.

What had she really hoped for Vigrod to give her? The Nightingale's daily schedule and a detailed list of his weak points? No, in truth the elusive man had given her plenty—if it turned out that there really was a passage to the Nightingale's personal hideout, why, that would give her an extraordinary advance over him. A shot at him on a silver platter. So what was she so miffed about?

_It's simply because now you're beginning to realize the hopelessness of your situation. You've managed to strut and pose your way this far, but now that it's getting to be time to do something, you have to admit that failure is as imminent as it is inevitable._

"Too many words, fool," she muttered. "And besides, you don't know anything about me."

_Know about you? Fool, I_ am _you!_

Runa grunted.

"Where are we going?" Rusty insisted behind her, sounding increasingly less patient.

"Back to the Rift," she said over her shoulder.

"Back to the Rift," he repeated. "Yeah, that's real helpful. Could've never figured _that_ out."

_See that? Even your most trusted men have lost their faith in you. And who could blame them—_

It was obvious that she needed something else to occupy her mind with. Thoughts of naked flesh usually did it, though those hadn't exactly been on top of her mind today. Still, it was worth the try. _Let's see, now. Maybe a—_

A sudden flash: an image of a man, knifed to death in his bed. A woman crouched on the floor with a toddler boy underneath her, both stabbed through and through. Smell of death. A little girl through whose eyes she viewed the horrid spectacle. A family.

Her family.

Runa shook her head. Not her family. Her family consisted of the most famous and revered heroine in Skyrim for a mother, and a dead sister, Lucia, a strange quiet little girl who had died unexplainedly.

No, scrap that. All in the past. Her current family was right here with her. These two miserable bastards. Loyally backing her up, as they always did . . .

She drew rein.

The boys caught up with her, stopped their horses on each side.

Hroar frowned. "You alright?"

"Yeah," said Rusty. "Suddenly realize you have no idea where—?"

Runa reached out to swat his arm.

"Ow!" he cried.

"What is it, Runa?" Hroar asked.

Runa studied him. Such an earnest face. Loyal to a fault. Like a dear, dumb dog.

"I'm sorry," she blurted.

Now he really looked concerned. " _Are_ you alright?" he asked.

"I'm . . . fine," she managed. She cast a look around, then at her men each in turn. "Just, I'm sorry, that's all."

"Are you . . .," Rusty said in disbelief, " _apologizing_?"

She scowled. "Don't make me take it back."

"Just to clarify," said Hroar, "What, exactly, are you apologizing for?"

"Well . . . you know. For, everything."

Rusty nodded with mock reflection. "Yes. Yes, I've been waiting for this for quite some time."

"Can you be serious for a second?" Hroar snapped.

Rusty rolled his eyes.

"Listen, fellows," Runa said. "I have an idea—"

"Well, well, well. Look who we should run into!"

All three heads swung in the direction they'd come from. Five familiar faces. Dirty and ugly, as usual, with a few new scuffs and grazes to boot. Torn clothes, fresh blood stains. The Meathead posse. Something about their step did not seem entirely steady.

As the men caught up with them, Thorgir the Meathead flashed Runa a self-satisfied grin. "Well met. This is as far as you got?"

"You're done sooner than I expected. Forced to a retreat, were you?"

Thorgir barked a laugh. "In your dreams, maybe! Nah, me and the boys, after some more guidance sought from the spirit of the bottle, decided to forgo sleep altogether and surprise the bastards in their sleep. A grand idea that turned out to be, the fools were caught wholly unprepared! Some fierce bandits, hah!"

"Feiri dead, then?"

"Indeed, the bitch bites the dust. Had my way with her before laying her to waste though."

"No, you didn't!"

"Ha! Aye, you got me there. Can't say I didn't try, though. Turned out it was easier to simply kill 'er."

Hroar wrinkled his nose. "You're disgusting."

Thorgir gave the man a minute glance. "Aye, well that ain't no news, boy, now is it?"

"Bet she killed herself once she figured out what you were up to," said Runa.

Thorgir snorted. "My gentle love would've been no worse than what she deserved!"

"You said it."

"You gentlemen going to walk with us?" asked Rusty.

"It'd be an honor," Thorgir said. "If only you'll have us."

It looked like Rusty swallowed a comment. Likely wise.

"But of course," Runa said. "You can tell us all about your night."

"I'll be glad to!"

"I didn't mean it, you know."

The man actually managed to look disappointed.

And so they continued together, the three getting down to walk their horses. Runa couldn't deny welcoming this sudden diversion. She didn't at all mind the uncouth travel company of fellow warriors: some more mouth-shooting, general bragging, and crass jokes instead of whatever unhelpful thoughts and feelings her own head seemed intent on churning.

Yes, distractions were most welcome.

_You can't avoid it forev—_

"Say, Thorgir," she called. Thorgir was in the process of chiding one of his men over some detail or other from last night. "How about the Redguards?"

"What Redguards?"

"Surely you ran into them as you were headed this way?"

"Didn't head this way. Took the long route via Valtheim Towers. Had some passing business there." He cracked his large knuckles as he came to walk beside her.

"Ah, then you're in for a treat!"

"Treat, eh? So these Redguards buxom, scantly-glad female Redguards?"

"Not exactly. Well endowed, though. At least some of them."

"How do you— Hah, never mind! What was I thinking? It's you we're talking about here, after all."

"You said it."

His eyes narrowed. "That reminds me . . ."

"Forget it."

"Now, where's this coming from? Have I ever left you wanting me before?"

"You've left me scratching, that's what."

"Ah, that. I've had that little problem fixed."

"Haven't I heard _that_ before."

The banter between them lasted a while longer. Runa dug out a couple of the ales she'd stashed in her satchel before leaving Whiterun and offered one to Thorgir. They bantered, and they drank, and Runa dug out another pair of bottles, feeling only a little miffed about the drain in her storage. The drink was nice and cool. It made her almost forget her worries.

Eventually the drink, including the couple she'd had for breakfast, took its toll and she had to take a break to relieve herself in the shrubs. No need to wait around, she told the others and so they walked ahead. For some reason it took her a long time to squeeze everything out satisfactorily.

The band had moved on by the time she clambered back onto the path. Only Vigrod had dropped back, and was waiting for her halfway.

"Better?" he asked.

"What's up, Vigrod?"

He regarded her. "You're really going through with this, are you?"

Runa shrugged. "Do I have a choice?"

"Aye," Vigrod replied at length. "Well, there is something—" He glanced about. "—something else occurred to me."

"Is that so?" Runa replied. "What's that, then?"

"Well, it might not be anything of note."

"Out with it, I've no patience for your charades."

Vigrod chuckled. "Alright. Fair enough. Well there's talk of mysterious excavations the Nightingale's been running lately. He's been looking for something. Must be important."

"Unless he's there swinging the pickaxe himself, I don't see how that helps."

"He does seem to show a significant interest in the digging. I'd wager there's a chance you could meet him there."

Without asking for specifications about where "there" might have been, Runa gave Vigrod a suspicious glare. "How come you know so much about the Nightingale's business anyway?"

"Now, Runa. Would I really give up my secrets?"

"You make me regret letting you off the hook too easy last night. Would be interesting to know just what you were willing to give up."

A flash of something like greed. His eyes quickly scanned her up and down. "Are you coming on to me?"

Runa snorted. "You wish."

"I wouldn't say no."

"I wouldn't ask, if I was of the mind. Which I ain't."

He clicked his tongue. "Shame."

"Don't know nothing about that," she replied. "So. You got anything else?"

"What else do you need? There are no shortcuts, you know. You've picked yourself one hell of a challenge. You might not make it, this time."

"I'll be the judge of that," Runa said. "Hey! We're almost there." She hopped onto Frost. "Gotta get a look at Thorgir's face when he sees them." She picked up her pace to catch the rest of the posse.

"See what?" called Vigrod from behind him.

That was the question. And as Runa reached the vanguard, as they reached a spot from where they'd be able to spy the Redguard roadblock, it became apparent that the answer was not quite what she'd expected it to be.

For the course was clear.

"Well, I'll be damned," she said, pulling her horse to a stop.

"You most definitely will be that, Runa." Thorgir said. "In that regard, you're no better than the rest of us."

"You don't understand," she said. "They were just here. With no apparent hurry to relocate. Where could they have gone?"

"The Redguards, I presume. Could be you made 'em up?"

Runa rolled her eyes, gesturing at the site. There was no doubt that a camp had stood here not a sunrise ago. Faint smoke still rose from some hastily stifled embers. "I suppose I'm seeing things, then, and there aren't these signs even a blind halfwit could decipher?"

Thorgir snorted. "Aye, I'm just messing with you, girl. No need to get all worked up." He shrugged. "So they're gone, what of it?"

"I agree," said Rusty, ignoring the other man's vicious glare. "Good riddance, I say, needlessly blocking good people's path!"

Thorgir barked a laugh at the chosen adjective, clearly missing Rusty's sarcasm.

"Just don't make sense to me," Runa insisted, not knowing herself why it bothered her so. What was, after all, her motivation? Had she really been so eager to see how Thorgir would react? Or had she perhaps secretly been hoping to see Kamid al-Kalad again? _I can't deny it, wouldn't pass up another roll with that one. Knew exactly where everything was, he did._

The mere thought was almost enough to improve her mood. Then it darkened again, as she realized she wasn't getting any action any time soon. At least any _good_ action. Hell, she'd settle on killing someone, but even that wasn't looking so strong at the moment.

"I fail to see," said Thorgir, a meaty finger deep in one nostril, "what the problem is here."

Runa shook her head. "Just feels like something ain't—"

"Fair-Shield!"

Runa's head snapped in the direction of the snarl.

Ahead, perched atop a grassy knoll, a familiar ugly female face leered down at them, making Runa grit her teeth.

The spite in Loria's grin was plain as day. "Surprised to see me, are you?"

"Actually," Runa called, "I can't say that I am!" Her hands went to the pommels of her blades.

Loria did not miss that. Her grin quirked, and after a quick scope of Runa's bristling entourage, she gave a sharp whistle.

And then she was no longer alone on that hill. On each side of her, unmounted and well-armed folks appeared on the hill. And then more on foot from behind trees.

Loria looked around, grinning. "I see that this time you brought along more friends . . . and so did I."

Without further ado, Loria waved her hand towards Runa's gang, and the armed thugs attacked. She herself turned her horse and, laughing, vanished over the knoll.

With a curse, Runa grabbed Frost's reins and heaved herself atop the horse. A nudge and he was agallop. The two thugs in her way had time to neither jump aside nor lift a weapon.

"Wait up!" Runa screamed as she crested the knoll. "I knew you were still alive, but there's an easy fix for that!"

A hundred yards ahead, Loria grinned over her shoulder, and the damn woman was giggling. _Well, she won't be for much longer!_

Runa smiled as Frost was rapidly gaining on the other woman's roan mare. She'd soon catch up to the bitch and, well, that clunky hammer strapped to her back would not be much of a defense. In these circumstances, a well-aimed backstab would not be beneath Runa.

"You should have planned this one out better!" she cried. "This time you won't vanish on me."

Loria looked back again and locked eyes with Runa. Still grinning, the fool. Then her eyes traveled to her right, and those thin lips spread out wider.

Frowning, something moving in her peripheral vision, Runa followed the bandit's gaze. "Goddamn", she muttered. Two more riders had appeared from behind a bank to the left. More bandits, coming at her. "Not so dumb after all."

As their eyes met again, the smirking small woman gave a small shrug. Then Runa noticed the two other bandits coming at her from the trees on the right. She had to admit it: looked a lot like she was the fool here.

She'd let herself be lured into a damn _trap_!

Runa set her jaw and sawed at Frost's reins to bring their pace a down a notch. She'd have to give up catching Loria . . . for now. She'd have to deal with these bozos first.

Then she noticed one rider on each side sporting a bow: aimed at her, as one might assume. "Shit." There was little she could do about arrows right now, and so the best she could think of was to press herself lower against Frost.

Which helped with the fist missile swooshing at her head from the left. Missed by hair's breadth. The other one snapped against a rock on the ground. Yes, of course. Shooting her horse would do the trick as well. She'd rather the poor boy did not need to take her hits, so she'd better clear the situation up and quick.

She pulled hard on the reins, and Frost swerved to the left. The look on the horsewoman's face was worth seeing as the white stallion rammed into the slighter horse. Runa used the confusion and swung one sword at her. Despite the commotion, however, the bandit proved agile and was able to fling herself backwards to evade the blade. From behind the bandit, then, the leftmost bowman fired another one, and the shaft hissed just past Runa's nose.

She had barely enough time for a breath of relief before a bitter curse passed her lips. Sharp, biting pain in her right thigh. She could picture the arrow jutting out of it before her eyes could affirm the fact. Damn. Those breeches were almost new!

_Nice set of priorities you've got there._

"You keep your mouth shut," Runa muttered through the pain. "Got enough on my hands here."

The bandit on her left was preparing for an attack, a thin blade glimmering in the sunlight. Her own weapon in her right hand, her left one busy holding the rein, Runa would be unable to switch hands fast enough for an efficient parry. An arrow in the leg was one thing. A stab wound in the side would prove a whole another thing to contend with.

Regretfully, she looked at the woman's horse. "Sorry girl," she said softly.

Then, just as the bandit prepared for a lunge, a scream of anticipatory victory at her lips, Runa jabbed over Frost's head, and the tip of her sword sank into the flesh in the other horse's neck. Made Runa wince, the animal's piteous scream.

But it got the job done. The animal jerked violently to the opposite direction, and the rider, eyes hilariously wide, first struggled briefly to stay on, and, failing pretty much immediately, lost her balance and was thrown off. One foot would not disengage from the stirrup, and so the woman first hit her head on the ground and then was dragged unconscious, and quite likely unalive, behind the panicking horse looking for a safe place to go bleed out.

There was no time for feeling either glee or regret, as Runa's life might very well have been the next one forfeit. The bandit on the right was coming for her now. The pain still throbbed in her thigh, although a numbness was starting to set in around the wound. If she'd had the time she would've snapped the shaft, though of course she knew enough that it was better to leave the arrow in for now instead of trying to yank it out.

She caught the horseman's blade with her own: once and then twice, without much trouble. The man fought with his left hand, and it was evident that not only was he was less comfortable with it, but that even with the right one he wouldn't have a prayer against Runa on a level playing field. Meanwhile, the two bowmen kept firing at her, but were luckily missing for now. Though she by no means counted on that luck holding.

With the bandit's relative incompetence, Runa thought it best to spare the horse and so continued to swat at the man, who at least showed a decent efficiency in parrying. At least given the conditions.

Runa had just gotten her first jolt of optimism about the situation when her luck gave out, and there was another piercing pain heralded by a hiss. An arrow jotted out of her left shoulder. She screamed a curse.

No time for worrying about that, as the man kept coming. Runa gave a furious sideways blow to swat aside his sword, but had not enough strength left for a follow-through. It wasn't the arrows, the adrenalin was taking care of that, but rather the difficulty of controlling the horse and fighting at the same time, and keeping an eye on the bowmen as well. Not that Frost needed much controlling. And this was hardly her first time dancing. But still.

An arrow from the left passed narrowly in front of her face and nearly hit the other bandit as well. The man craned his neck to scream furiously at the bowman. At a whim, seeing her opportunity arise, Runa reached out at and cut the reins the man was holding. A clean cut. Good thing she'd just sharpened the sword in the early morning, unable to sleep.

Wide-eyed, the bandit struggled to stay on his horse, trying to grab the mane with his free hand. Runa fouled this by swatting as hard as she could, landing a satisfying blow with the flat of her blade which slammed into his face. He fell backwards and off the horse.

Which still left the bowmen, the leftmost of which fired another near-miss.

Runa decided to make offence her best defense. The archer was too slow in nocking a new arrow before Runa's diagonal dash reached him. He was quick enough to evade her wide sideways slash, however. Little wonder, as the blade was still in her left. She cursed, and then reluctantly and awkwardly switched hands with the blade and the reins. She cursed again as she rolled the left shoulder. With the arrow still jutting out, the pain was not going to help the fact that, despite generally favoring dual-wield, she'd never felt as confident with that side to being with.

It was times like this she thought she could have at least taken the time to learn even the rudiments of healing magic.

The time it took for her to switch had given the archer the chance to pull away to his left and to nock another arrow. Meanwhile the other man had missed at least twice. This wasn't getting any easier.

Screaming, she urged Frost to the left, brandishing the sword above her head. The arrow came loose. Her eyes widened as she gauged the arrows trajectory—headed straight between her eyes—and before any conscious thought had formed, she clumsily lowered the sword for haphazard protection.

Turned out she was both lucky and unlucky. The motion kept the arrow off her face, and yet she was too slow in getting the blade in the way. The upper rim of her vambrace took the brunt of the impact, but as the arrow grazed her arm, the sudden jolt brought about a fresh pang of pain in her punctured shoulder, causing her hand to loosen its grip, and so her blade fell to the ground. For the time being she was unable to reach down to unsheathe her other blade as well.

A new arrow was nocked before she was finished with her curses. She lowered her head and the missile sailed over her.

She cursed again as the muscles of the left arm spasmed when she tried to bend it. So much for trying to unsheathe her blade. She glanced over. Another arrow being fished out of the quiver. At least the other archer had been temporarily struggling with his horse on the uneven terrain and wasn't currently in active offence. But that would not be the case for long. Unarmed—rather literally!—Runa would not fare well against two archers for long.

The fingertips of her left hand happened on a bump near the rim of her boot. Yes, of course. The dagger she kept sheathed there. She dragged the leg of her breeches up to place her hand on the hilt. At least her fingers could still squeeze alright.

_Well, I got nothing to lose._ Runa steered Frost hard to the left, just as the archer aimed. Just a little closer. She ducked down on the saddle, flipping the latch of the scabbard open with her thumb.

The arrow came loose, and she flinched. Then almost lost her balance as her screaming horse bucked a bit. She opened her eyes. The bastard had hit Frost's flank.

The stallion screamed, and Runa hissed a curse. She yanked the dagger out of the scabbard, then concentrated all the strength she could force into her arm. Now, that the fucker's face was turned towards her! Pain shot down the arm as she threw it forward loosening the numbing fingers.

Not exactly a stellar toss. With the pain and the riding and the fact that it was her left hand . . . well, the best she could manage was a weak lob, fast enough for the archer not being able to evade it but too slow for anything else. And badly angled to boot—the dagger slammed into the rider's face flat-first, not making as much as a scratch. It deflected off, and after the initial shock the bandit flashed her a triumphant grin. Then went for another arrow.

With a wave of equal exhaustion and sense of defeat, Runa pressed her head down, preparing to take the impending arrow. Frost had continued to drift closer to the other horse and so they were now almost abreast.

_All the easier for the archer, I suppo—hey wait, am I stupid or something!?_

Only now did the obvious recourse come to her. She was just about to pull rein to make Frost stop.

But the horse was faster. The animal's head suddenly snapped out towards the other horse. The horse screamed in turn as Frost's teeth bit into its shoulder. It made a sudden, panicked swerve to the right, making to both get away from its murderous conspecific and to stop in its tracks.

Runa, still moving, turned to look as the archer, his hands on his bow, failed to meet the sudden change of events in time and was tossed clean off. He landed, ungracefully, right on his head, and his limbs thrashed as his neck snapped.

The dumbfounded Runa then whipped her head toward the last remaining rider, and the fellow looked no less bemused. Rage bloomed inside her. She switched hands on the rein to whip out her other blade. She shot the bandit an eyeful of fervor, raised the sword high above her head and let out a screeching war cry.

The archer, abandoning all plans of skewering her, pressed his head down to ride away as fast as his weary horse would allow. She contemplated going after him for a few moments of hazy thought, then pulled rein. Frost stopped, and Runa slumped on his back.

She gave the horse a weak pat on the side. "You did good, boy. You did real good. Fresh hay for you tonight."

Frost gave a snort. Whether it was pride or derision, Runa cared not to wonder.

After a moment's rest and profuse cursing she turned around to go collect her fallen sword and then headed back to the others.

What she found was more of a slaughter than a battleground: the bandits slain to a man, whereas the band of warriors looked virtually unscathed.

"Runa!" cried Bjorick son of Bjorick as she approached. "What the Oblivion happened to you! The lass didn't _look_ that tough." The jovial man was wiping blood off his face. Didn't look to be his own.

Her shoulder smarted like a bastard when she shrugged. "Looks can be deceiving," she said. "You of all people should know."

Hroar was frowning at the arrows jutting out of her. "Ambush?"

"If not that then something awfully analogous."

"You need healing?" asked Jorun Threehands, the mostly silent mage among them.

"No, thanks. I'll just wait for the arrows to fall off by themselves. Of course I need a damn healing, numbskull!"

Jorun got to it, and she tried her best not to feel awkward about needing someone else to tend to such little scuffs. She would make of point of letting ma teach her some healing of her own _the next time_ the old lady offered. She watched Jorun work with quiet fascination. Something surreal about watching the arrows push themselves out and the holes in her skin closing in real time. Didn't fix the armor, though.

"Stop wriggling, damn you!"

Thorgir's gruff barking stole her attention. He'd likely run after retreating bandits and looked as though he was bringing one back. Either for questioning or for simply letting off some steam.

As Runa got a look at the supposed bandit, she frowned. Then her brows arched. No, not a bandit, exactly.

"We-hell!" Thorgir said. He was dragging a blond young man by the scruff of his neck, like the unruly neighbor boy caught stealing his apples again. "Look what I found skulking about!"

Jesper scowled defiantly and gave his neck an ineffectual shake against Thorgir's firm grip. Thorgir grinned, then shoved the boy forward. He just barely kept himself from diving into the muck, then did his best to stand rebelliously straight. Just like the apple thief would've.

The way everyone eyed him was just on par as well.

Thorgir the Meathead spat. "What the hell is this? The quality of bandits has certainly taken a dive lately."

The big man's demeanor seemed to spark fear in the lad's eyes, although he did his meager best to hide this. Then, as his eye happened on Runa's, a sequence of different emotions rapidly crossed his countenance.

Runa grinned. "You don't learn easy, do ya boy?"

"You know this pup?" Thorgir asked

Runa shrugged. "Define _know_." To Jesper, "What are you doing here?"

"My business in my own!"

"So far it don't look like you handle it too well."

Jesper scowled.

"Now, wait just one minute," demanded Thorgir "Who is this fool?"

"Maven's pet," Runa said.

Thorgir whistled. "R _ea_ lly? A good catch, then!" He gave the boy a shove.

Runa shrugged. "Depends on your taste, I suppose."

Thorgir then wrapped his meaty hand around Jesper's throat and lifted him to his tiptoes. "Runa's way too kind, what with that soft ol' heart of hers and all. But I don't have that problem. Now tell me, what the fuck does Maven have to do with this?"

"Something tells me strangling him isn't gonna help him talk," Runa noted.

"Aye." Thorgir held the kid just a moment longer, then, reluctantly, let him fall to the ground. "Better speak quick, then."

Jesper picked himself off the ground, shot Thorgir the Meathead a glare of wary hostility. When he spoke his addressed his words to Runa. "I'm here of my own volition. Maven's got nothing to do with it."

"Is that so?"

He said nothing.

Runa snorted. "So what of this volition of yours? Death wish?"

Jesper regarded her for a while. Then said, "You'll need me."

Now it was Thorgir to snort. "We all know Runa, but I seriously doubt you're her type."

Ignoring this, Jesper said, "There's something I know that you don't."

"I find that difficult to believe."

"Regardless, it changes nothing," Jesper said. "You'll need me," he repeated.

Runa studied him for a few minutes, eyes slightly narrowed. There was something endearingly earnest about him. And yet something profoundly pathetic. She found that she felt pity for him. She felt the need to—

"I need nothing from you," she said, and turned away.

"Wait—"

Thorgir cut Jesper off by grabbing him hard by the neck. "You've wasted enough of my time," he growled. "And I've a mind to make you make good on it. You might not be Runa's type, but I ain't that picky!"

He then dragged the horrified looking boy past leering, dirty warriors over to a waist-high boulder over to the side. He shoved Jesper's face onto the boulder. "Hold him down, lads!"

And so they did. Jesper writhed and cursed against the strong hands holding him in place, someone dragging down his breeches and revealing a lily-white ass.

Runa observed the pathetic kid struggling in vain, thinly veiled terror erupting as every insult and threat that he had in his vocabulary. Meanwhile Thorgir the Meathead was getting ready, stroking his cock while spitting on the crack of Jesper's ass and rubbing it in. "Don't worry," he growled. "It'll be over sooner than you know."

"Aren't you gonna do something about this?" Hroar hissed beside Runa.

She eyed him. And did nothing. "Aren't _you_?" she replied.

Anger twisted the big fellow's features. And yet he did not do anything either.

Runa snorted humorlessly, then turned back to the grotesque display. Thorgir was still rubbing himself, slow to harden as usual. It was the drink, she reckoned. Or perhaps he was just shy.

Thing was, she didn't like it any more than anyone. But if there was one thing about the companionship of hardened killers and mercenaries, it was that you wanted to keep on good terms with them. And that meant trying not to piss them off. Sure, fuck with them a bit, brawl with 'em if needed. But stay away from a few crucial things: don't cheat them, don't steal from them, don't cross them.

And whatever you did, do not go between them and their prey.

Thing was, it was a careful balance and you did not want to fuck around with that balance. Enemies were the easiest thing to acquire, and friends therefore all the more important. That meant overlooking some of their uglier sides. _And, let's be honest, ugly sides are a damn sight easier to find in them than the other sort!_

No. Thing was—

"Stop," Runa said.

Of course no one heard her, as it was more a mutter. Thorgir was pretty much hard now. At least, it seemed he'd concluded, hard enough. His cock glistening with spit. At least, for Jesper's benefit, it was hardly anything to write home to mama about.

_What are you doing?_ demanded the familiar voice in Runa's head. _You'd better not—_

"Stop!" she said.

Everyone stopped, Thorgir frowning at her over his shoulder. Then he grinned. "Oh, you changed your mind, did you?" He glanced down at his prick. "I'm afraid you lack the proper equipment for the way I think this one ought to be handled." He gave Jesper's ass a resonant slap. The men around him laughed, but a bit uncertainly.

"Let him be."

The grin turned into a frown again. "I assumed you're joking."

"'Fraid not," Runa said with a shake of her head. "Not this time. Let the boy go."

Around Thorgir, everyone shared unsure looks, but doing nothing to release Jesper. They looked to Thorgir to make the call.

"Sorry, Runa," he said. "But it ain't happening. You know how it goes. I'm gonna have my fun here. But tell you what, afterwards I'll let him go. Won't take a longer than a few—"

"Let," Runa said, and unsheathed one blade for the breadth of two fingers, "him go . . . _now_."

The hard stares of the two pierced the air between them. Everyone knew that neither had the habit of standing down in situations like this. And no one much liked, she was aware, the inevitable outcome of such an impasse: fights to the death had been sparked by smaller embers. And while Thorgir had behind him the manpower in numbers, there was no doubt that Runa and her gang could cut an ugly swathe in those numbers. Hell, it was likely they'd come out as the winner. Should it come to that.

And Runa for one was now fully prepared that it should.

As she was just getting certain that Thorgir would bark the order for his men to get ready, an ugly grin marred his already plenty ugly features. He gave a harsh cackle. "Alright, Runa. Have it your way!" He waved at the men. "Release the pipsqueak." As they seemed disinclined to believe what their ears told them, he waved an impatient arm, and barked, "As in fucking now!"

They let him go.

"Don't worry, Runa. No hard feelings on my part."

To dispel the unsureness of how she felt about his words, she grinned while gesturing at his once more tucked-in cock and said, "I don't even know where to begin commenting on that."

"Ha!" Thorgir the Meathead threw his head back in supposed mirth. "Never misses an opportunity, does she. She's alright, ain't she lads?"

Runa didn't seem to be the only one having difficulties in interpreting the situation. Cautious laughs seemed the best course of action.

She went to take Jesper firmly by the arm and tow him aside.

"Now I hope you have the good sense," she muttered irately, "to at least appreciate what I just done risked for you."

He glared at her. "I was doing just—"

She smacked him hard across the face.

The men, looking over because of the slap, laughed.

Pressing her furious face right next to his stricken one, Runa hissed between her teeth. "Make another comment like that, and I so swear to every god of this forsaken cosmos I'll see to it you don't sit right for a fucking _month_!"

Despite looking no less surly the kid at least seemed smart enough to not try and argue.

"So," Runa said. "Speak and speak soon, 'fore I decide that maybe you serve a better purpose as Thorgir's cock-holster after all."

Hroar and Rusty had gathered around them as well. The former frowning at the lad in that way of his, which didn't permit you to decipher what exactly it was that he was thinking. The latter smirking so that it left little need for imagination—he was, after all, known on occasion to take the leading role in the sack as well, but only with fellows who were even more soft and feminine than him.

Poor Jesper no doubt tried his best to not appear soft and feminine, but the truth was that no amount of glowering or defiant posturing was going to accomplish that.

Runa rolled her eyes. "Sit," she said, grabbing him by the shirt and forcing him down on his ass on an outcrop, "down." As he tried getting back, one warding finger from her was enough to dissuade him. "And open your pretty little mouth while no one's yet trying to stuff it with anything."

It took him a little while longer to put aside enough of his oversized dignity to start. "Maven is setting you a trap."

"You're a little late with that," Runa replied. "I found it, and I untangled it. Got anything else?"

Jesper snorted, shaking his head. "Nah, it ain't that at all. Just a little distraction, with the riders. She's got a bigger one waiting still."

"Is that so? What's got her all riled up of a sudden? Because I chopped down some of her cronies? That bitch must've gotten even more—"

"She's working with the Nightingale."

Runa's weren't the only eyebrows that rose at that. "Is she now?" She thought about it for a second. "No, she mused. "Guess I can't say that that surprises me any. I mean, I knew she was in his pocket, just like every other shady type in this province. But I suppose I never took her for an errand girl, exactly."

"She's more than that!" Jesper hissed.

"Huh? Oh yeah, I forgot she had you bewitched." She frowned. "All the more pertinent: why are _you_ telling me this?"

Blushing, he suddenly glowered at something at his feet.

"I repeat," Runa said, trusting that her tone kept her from needing to put a hand on him, "why should you of all people, Maven's favorite little pet, come to warn me about her evil intentions? Surely you see how that would be considered just a touch suspicious."

The tone was enough to force him to look at her again, but at first he didn't say anything.

When that silence lasted for a few more seconds, Hroar dragged the boy to his feet. "Answer her!" he growled.

Runa rolled her eyes at her comrade's apparent uncouth brashness, then laid a calming hand over his big arm. He let go.

"Sorry," Hroar muttered, backing.

"Now," Runa told Jesper softly, "the second big strong man wanting to manhandle you now—albeit in a considerably different manner—you'll understand I can't ward them all off indefinitely?"

"My reasons are my own!"

"I'm _sure_ they are," she said. "But sometimes we need to share what's ours. Did you know that?"

He made a face.

"Yes, Jesper. I am speaking to you like you were a child. But you know why that is?"

He studied her, confusion in his frown.

"Because you're _fucking acting_ like one!"

Her sudden scream, together with the hand she raised as if to swat him, made Jesper shy back. Behind her, men laughed.

Now it was Hroar holding her back—even though she wasn't really going to strike the fool. This was an interrogation tactic they'd polished a long time ago. Well, perhaps _polished_ wasn't exactly it. But damned if it wasn't effective!

"Hold on, now Runa. I'm sure he's going to tell us what we need." Hroar shot Jesper a look, " _Aren't_ you, lad?"

"What does it matter why I'm doing this? The main thing is, they're out to get you!"

Hroar pretended to hold Runa back. "What it matters", he said calmly, "is how can we trust you? Why would you rat Maven out?"

Jesper seemed to consider. Runa made a show of calming down. She took a deep breath. "Alright. You get one more chance, kid. Then you're on your own."

"There's something not quite right with him," he said finally.

"The Nightingale? You don't say."

"And unexplainable evil trails him. Like, he's not entirely from this world."

"Now, that's where you lose me. Ain't nothing so evil it doesn't fit right in this ol' world of ours. Better get that in your head."

"It's different with him," Jesper muttered.

Runa shrugged. "Whatever you say. So, that's it? You'll betray Maven because you're jealous of him?"

"I'm not—!"

She waved him silent. "Save it. Bottom line is, I still don't see any reason to trust you."

He studied her. "I can take you to him."

"Can you, now?"

"I can. I know where he's going. He won't suspect anything."

"I see," Runa said after thinking. "So, he tries to set me a trap but I surprise him by getting him first? That's cute."

"Cute?"

"Cute for Maven to think I'm that dumb, that is. She sent you to sell me this poppycock so that you could lure me into their trap. Yeah, not transparent _at all_!"

Jesper shook his head. "That's not it."

"No? Well my instinct says it is. And I'll take the word of my instinct over some butt-boy of Maven's any day. That's why I've still got my head."

Jesper looked frustrated, but Runa found that she could not quite gauge the reason. Her instinct was not in fact entirely clear on what was going on. This was, there was a chance he was speaking the truth, which meant this could be the chance she was waiting for. Then again, it could just as easily be that—

"So, you're going to let him out of your hands because you don't trust me?"

"I'm going to live another day because there's no way I'm trusting the—"

"I think he's telling the truth."

Runa cocked a brow at Hroar, who was scrutinizing the young man solemnly. "You do?"

"Aye," he replied slowly. "Honestly, I'm not sure if he's smart enough to deceive anyone."

At first Jesper seemed as though he intended to protest, but then closed his mouth, giving Runa a look. Smart enough not to argue.

Runa nodded. "I see your point. Rusty, what are you thinking?"

With a smirk, Rusty eyed Jesper up and down.

Runa rolled her eyes. "About him lying."

"Ah. Well, he might be. Then again he might not be."

"Helpful as ever. Alright." Runa reached down then, dragging Jesper up by his shirt and pulling him right up close. She squinted into his intimidated eyes for a minute or two. "Alright," she muttered. She pushed him back onto his butt. "Maybe."

"Give him a chance?" asked Hroar.

"A chance of what?" Rusty said.

"I'm thinking . . ." Runa said. "Maybe we can hear him out." She looked about. "But not here. We better rid ourselves of—"

"Runa!"

Speaking of the devil. Thorgir waved at her, not looking like he was harboring a grudge over his spoiled fun. But you never knew. "A word with you, please." When she didn't answer right away, he cracked an unsightly grin. "Don't worry, I ain't gonna bite."

Runa snorted. Over her shoulder, she told the others. "A minute. Make sure he doesn't try anything."

"Which one?" asked Hroar.

She snorted again. She gazed toward Thorgir. "This shouldn't last long. I'll tell him we'll be heading off." Sharpening her gaze on Jesper still on the ground, she pointed. "And you best be ready to convince."

Then she headed out to join Thorgir. Wondering how many people she'd still see dead before the day was done. And which people.


	15. Rack and Ruin

_Torture_.

Rarely did one concept manage to cover as much ground in one man's life. But Bashnag could've searched for years and still not found a better word to sum up his existence. Both psychologically and professionally.

As the basic experience of what it was like being him, it hardly needed elaboration. It was torture to wake up every morning and it was no less torture going to bed, knowing that next day wouldn't be any different. And what happened in between, well, that Bashnag tried his best to ignore at the best of times. Tried and failed.

Appropriately enough, torture was a large part of his work as well. Always some sucker who knew something he did not want to share, and somehow imagined he was going to succeed in keeping it to himself. And it was up to Bashnag to convince the poor sucker of the erroneous nature of such notions. Although, as a means of interrogation, torture was of course notoriously ineffective, as even a child knew that under torture _anyone_ could be made to confess to _anything_. As a method, then, it was favored among societies which put far less weight on truth than they did on order.

_That would be societies in general, I reckon_.

Bashnag gave a grunt of bitter amusement.

"Yes, my friend," said the Nightingale beside him. "I too, find myself in such _awe_ that I cannot find sufficient words to describe it!"

Bashnag suppressed a sigh. His mind had started to wonder again. And who could blame him? What he was experiencing at this moment was a special sort of torture.

"The immediate presence of history certainly has an effect on a man's mind, don't you find, Bashnag?"

_You hit the nail on the head, sir_.

In fact, to Bashnag there were few things more _terrifying_ than history. Was it not enough to know how much living beings had to suffer today? How disheartening, then, to realize that it had been going on for such a long time, from one wretched age to another. And how long would it still have to continue! _Generations_ of misery and toil!

Bashnag grunted.

"Indeed, my friend," the Nightingale said. "Indeed."

Ruin surrounded them, as was the usual state of affairs. Although this time it was the _literal_ sort of ruin. An excavation site which the Nightingale had been running for a couple years now, bored into the rock beside the previously known ruin of Avanchnzel. Right now, they stood in the excavation cave not far from the entrance, staring at a large ornate metal door, which had recently been revealed hidden within the stone wall. What they had originally been looking for, it seemed, after they had first spent months unearthing the apparently not-so-interesting part of something that might or might not have been on ancient temple. Honestly, Bashnag preferred not to know, so he only pretended to listen when someone had described the matter to him. That someone generally being the Nightingale. The man seemed to take an eerie interest in things best left in the past.

The metal door itself appeared no different from one of those puzzle doors you found in old Nordic ruins. Yet the Nightingale studied it as it were the long-lost secret to existence.

"A thing of exceptional beauty, is it not?"

_It is not._ "Yes, sir."

"I'm sure you can tell what makes it stand out, can't you Bashnag?"

_No fucking clue, sir._ "Yes, sir."

The Nightingale chuckled. He gestured. "See those carvings running across the outer rim. That's Ayleid script. Can you imagine, Ayleid script in Skyrim! Easy to mix up with Dwemer, but if you know how to look, the difference is quite apparent. Then, on the middle rings, Nordic runes, what you'd expect to see on a door like this, right? Finally, there, that inscription above? That's Dwemer writing. See the sharper, more angular lines compared with the Ayleid script?" He paused to give Bashnag a significant look. "Do you see, now, the shattering significance?"

Bashnag studied the writing. "No, sir."

"Honesty," the Nightingale said after a spell. "Your most characteristic trait. I appreciate that."

Bashnag grunted.

"The writing above," the Nightingale said. "It is actually a Dwemeris translation of what seems to be an ancient Ayleid proverb: ' _Va garlas agea, gravia ye goria, lattia mallari av malatu',_ in : _'_ _In the caverns of lore, ugly and obscure, shines the gold of truth'_. The word _agea_ , to my knowledge, denotes not only _lore_ but also _wisdom_ and _secret_. I would also argue that _gravia_ means not merely ugly to the eye, but something so powerful and fundamental that, for most, gazing upon it would render them blind. But then I'm no scholar."

As the Nightingale's eyes locked on him, Bashnag did his best to remain impassive, pretending to examine the squiggles. The door, like the puzzle doors, had three rotating rings with symbols on them. Only, in place of the animal symbols of the usual variety there were the runes mentioned by the Nightingale. In the middle, then, a metal disk with holes—four instead of the usual three—and a roughly claw-shaped slot, only smaller than usual.

"The implications, therefore, point in two different directions. Either we must concede that what we are looking at here is a forgery. Or then, and there are obscure legends that suggest this, what lies behind this door is something which all the aforementioned civilizations—Ayleid, Dwemer, and ancient Nord—contributed to. Such a finding would be revolutionary! Written history has no record of any of these people ever co-operating. Whatever the answer may be, behind this door lies the key." He paused. "The legends name it _Avangzand_. What that signifies, no one knows . . . But I mean to find out."

"Why, sir?" Bashnag repressed a wince. His unruly tongue was at it again.

The Nightingale studied him. "Why, Bashnag? Well, it's for no mere historical curiosity, I assure you." Then he studied the door again, as if his burning gaze would be enough to penetrate it. "No, there is _power_ behind this door. I can sense it! And I plan to make it mine."

"Yes, sir." Bashnag fought a chill that seemed to suddenly wash over him from somewhere deep within the mountain, biting into his bone and marrow.

"Only one obstacle remains. We have yet to locate the key. See, here." The Nightingale pressed his hand on the metal disk at the middle. "Like a Dragon Claw lock, only of unusual design." He felt at the holes. "The key must reside somewhere within these ruins. It must. And we shall find it."

Bashnag frowned. Something peculiar behind the Nightingale's voice. Something so uncharacteristically possessed, even . . . _desperate_.

"Another alternative," the Nightingale said after a while, removing his hand and thus seeming to regain his self-possession. "We find a competent enough artificer who can create us a new one."

While there was no more detectable desperation in the Nightingale's voice, you couldn't say the same about his words. An artificer? Even Bashnag knew that one with such skill had not been seen in the world since . . . well, likely since the Dwemer.

"You doubt me," the Nightingale said.

"No, sir", Bashnag nearly said, then remembered what the Nightingale had just said about his honesty.

The Nightingale chuckled. "No, that's alright. I would doubt me too. If I didn't know better. But there are things afoot of which I cannot yet tell even you. But you shall see, in time."

Bashnag grunted.

The Nightingale looked over. "Do the things I do disturb you, Bashnag."

Unable to meet the man's eye, Bashnag grunted.

Gods. How much more torture could he endure until _he_ would confess to anything?

* * *

Suppose that Thorgir was nice enough a fellow. He was fair, made no fuss or nothin' about spoiling his fun and all. Yeah, a real sport. Ugly as sin, small where it counted with unreliable potency, and not exactly a lover for the books, but come desperate hour suppose she'd still have a roll with 'im.

Runa's attention then went on Jesper trudging ahead of her. Namely that tushy of his. Not bad. No wonder ol' Thorgir was looking into cracking it. Not a bad piece of meat in general, that boy. Easy to see why Maven kept him 'round.

A hot wave started out in between her legs and traveled upward, as a sudden vision of what she'd like to do with the kid. Youth rarely coupled with skill, but there were other uses for it . . .

"Runa, you're drunk."

" _Amn't_!" Runa snapped, irritable from being snapped out of her reveries.

Rusty rolled his eyes. "Yes, you are. When we stopped at Ivarstead, you said you were getting a couple of meads and ales to go but walked out of the inn with two bottles of Colovian brandy. And you're into the second one already! Never mind your tottering step and that wicked gleam in your eyes . . . yeah, you're tanked, my friend!"

Curbing her natural inclination to argue, Runa took a gander around. Yeah, maybe things swayed a bit. And two Hroar-faces glowering at her were, if possible, even more grating than one. "Yeeah, ok," she conceded. "Mmbe I'mma li'l."

"So, how did you plan," Rusty said, "to kill the Nightingale in that condition?"

" _Pfft_! I could kill 'im immy _sleep_!"

Roll-roll-roll, his eyes went. "At this rate, you're going to have to."

"You need to clear your head," said Hroar.

Runa smirked to herself. "Yeah, well, whammight clear m' head if lil' Jesper there would—" She clapped a hand over her mouth. Those had been speaking-words, hadn't they, not thinking-words?

Rusty snorted.

Hroar shook his head. "You're embarrassing us!"

Runa sharpened her eyes on him—or tried to. Narrowing them almost reduced his faces down to one.

_Embarrass_ them? In whose eyes, that little pup? She'd a mind to set the big guy straight, but—being the smart and elegant woman that she was—did concede that she was perhaps in just a touch too insouciant state to pick sharp enough words.

So, with an indignant grunt—yeah, it probably came across more as barely-held vomit—she reached in her saddlebag and chose a small vial. She gulped it down. The mild healing potion would even her state out without oppressing her into full sobriety.

After a few short seconds, Hroar had just one face again. She scowled at it. Prepared to speak her mind. Then stopped. Suddenly, her case no longer seemed so evidently strong. What was that solid point she was going to make? And what was this other feeling that was stealing in? An awful lot like . . . _shame_.

Unable to handle it, Runa's hand went for her satchel where the brandy was.

Rusty swatted the hand.

"Ow!"

"Oh no, you don't! Look, we're almost there."

Runa looked. True enough, the verdant grassy hill sloped up steeper now, the jagged face of the Jerall Mountains rising at just a couple rock-throws' distance. The Dwarven ruin of Avanchnzel lay nearby, nestled between some crags. Runa had visited the place a few times, hunting some hiding bandit or some supposedly valuable artifact that turned out to fetch a much humbler price than had been led to believe. The usual bump and grind.

So Jesper's story had accorded with Vigrod's earlier harpings about an excavation of the Nightingale's. Close to the Avanchnzel site, supposedly. That there seemed like something worth looking into.

Looking at him now, shameful feelings re-emerged. Sure, he was cute, but like a puppy was. Way too innocent for her earlier depraved thoughts.

_Are you sure about that . . . ?_

Runa hissed.

"What?" asked Hroar.

"Never mind. Alright, kid," she said, reclaiming her composure. "You lead the way, and we shall see if there's anything to your big claims."

Jesper shot her a glare, which she returned with a winking grin. He had made a show of not wanting to go along, but Runa had seen through him. He was looking for some adventure. And who could blame him? Life as Maven's drone must've not been terribly exhilarating, to put it mildly. And in any case, Runa'd be a damn fool to not demand his presence. Call it insurance, for she obviously still did not entirely trust the lad. To put it mildly.

"What are we going to do, just barge in?" said Rusty.

"You got any better ideas? Besides, ain't it just how we always do things?"

Hroar rolled his shoulder. "Leave finesse for the poet."

"Ain't that what Ulf Rustshield always used to say?" Runa asked.

"And what happened to him?" Rusty reminded.

"Ah, his face getting hacked in half was an accident! Firewood-related, I think."

Rusty snorted.

"In any case, an excavation only has one entrance. And it's no use trying to sneak in in broad daylight."

"Fair enough."

"Should we leave the horses down here or take them with?" asked Hroar.

"Might as well take them," Rusty said. "Less likely to be stolen up there."

"Speak for your own nag," Runa said. "Ol' Frosty here would eat your face before letting you steal him."

"Yeah, well, whatever. Easier to ride out, shall we say?"

Runa shrugged. "Why not."

Walking after Jesper—how he knew about the location, Runa did not care to speculate—they steered to the right instead of heading straight toward Avanchnzel. From behind the trees on the left, you could see the puffs of steam still erupting from the strange Dwarven machinery outside of the ruin. Gave Runa the creeps, those long-gone stone-elves did. She gave quick prayers to the divines she generally gave less than half a crap about that the excavation wasn't going to be one of the Dwemer's old joints. Feeling she was setting herself up for a miserable disappointment.

* * *

The Nightingale, fortunately, did not seem to expect an answer from Bashnag. Instead the man focused his attention on the door again. He pressed his hand on it, feeling the embossing, mesmerized. "I shall yet plumb your secrets," he whispered. "And the world will never be the same again."

Bashnag was starting to have great difficulties containing the dread inside him. At moments like this, when his boss acted and spoke as he now did, he seriously questioned the man's sanity. And a man with the kind of powers and influence that the Nightingale had, with his level of ambition, becoming unhinged . . . well, there was hardly anything more dangerous, was there?

Suddenly the Nightingale stopped, tilting his head up, like a wolf catching a scent. His face snapped toward Bashnag, and the Orsimer just managed to suppress flinch as a smile spread onto his master's features. "It is time. We've got company."

"Sir?"

"Come." The Nightingale pulled out, raising his hand in front of him with fingers spread. The air rippled. "We need to step out for a minute."

A cold wave which wasn't physical swept out from where a dark portal punctured the air. Feeling the frigid wind that wasn't wind, Bashnag grunted.

"It is best we get out of the way, Bashnag," the Nightingale said. Without waiting he walked over and stepped through.

Steeling himself, Bashnag then followed.

* * *

Upon entering the cave, Runa grabbed ahold of the back of Jesper's collar. "Hold up. We're taking this slow."

Rusty behind her snorted. "Thought finesse was for—"

"Quiet, fool! Pussyfooting is one thing, but there's no need to be an idiot about it."

Ignoring his faces, she gently pushed on Jesper's back to prompt him forward. The devil inside her beguiled her to move the hand lower a bit, but she pushed it away. Neither time nor the goddamn place, and the wrong person to boot.

The cave was silent save for the crackling of torches and the grinding of gravel under their careful steps. The passage veered gently down and ever so slightly to the left. The usual odor of damp stone and buried past.

"How active are the excavations?" she hissed.

Jesper shrugged.

"Great." Setting her jaw, Runa placed her hand over the pummel of her right-hand blade. She'd donned her helmet, and the damn thing always made her head itch. Her head was feeling fuzzy now that the alcohol was wearing off, and she realized she was starting to get hungry. And the anticipation of violence, well, it always did tend to make her kinda horny.

At least she didn't need to piss.

_I had to say it._

Soon the passage took a sharper turn to the left, and there started sloping more steeply. At the turn there, there was a recess with one of those puzzle doors. _Hey, but if it's one of those then that would make this place Nordic instead of Dwemer!_ Draugr might have been damn nasty, but at least the undead seemed in some way natural compared with things that shouldn't have been alive to begin with, like those ghastly automatons.

_Superstitions of the living!_

Runa frowned. Now, her brain got a bit unruly at times, but that unbeckoned thought had seemed alien in all its hostility. She ran a hand over her face. This was not the place, nor the time, to start coming undone.

"Where's that door lead to?" asked Rusty.

"Find the key and we'll find out," she muttered.

" _What_?"

"Never mind the fucking door, that's what!"

"Geez. No need to get all hostile."

Runa closed her eyes. She had to get ahold of herself.

After a while, they came to a wooden set of platforms and stairs leading deeper down. Yeah, going deep underground was definitely going to help with her nerves. She'd need a swig of the brandy once that nosey Rusty wasn't looking. She would _not_ let him look at her condescendingly!

The scaffold's creaking and the intermittent skittle of rocks detaching from the excavation walls, occasional thumping as they hit the wood, were the only sounds to see them all the way down to the bottom of the pit. For an inexperienced runt, Jesper sneaked quietly with the best of them. Down, a single passageway took them forward. The air was pressingly still and stale down here. Sparingly positioned torches gave the narrow passage dim light, the sound of dripping water and their steps mixing into one hollow echo.

Just as Runa was becoming convinced that it would never end, the passage took a sharp right turn and then suddenly opened into a wider cavern. Here were the first discernable signs of a past dwelling: and what do you know, they were caskets, stored in two tiers lining the cavern's walls. She traded looks with her men.

Hroar scowled, unsheathing his sword. "Draugr," he hissed.

Rusty looked around at the caskets. "Don't see any yet." He grinned at Hroar. "Wanna look in?"

Hroar's cheek muscles bunched as he gripped tighter on the pummel of his sword. The man proclaimed himself the enemy of evil. And while, to Runa's mind, that term might have fallen short in explanatory potential when it came to a more satisfying analysis of the complexity of the human moral reality, there was no denying that whatever force kept animated the unholy beings generally referred to as the _Draugr_ certainly had the smack of true evil.

Yet, after they'd strutted about the cave for a time, nothing had burst out of any of the caskets. No one wanted to look in one, either. And so, after a while, they walked through the one doorway which led out of there. Not without a look back, thought. Nothing stirred. So they moved on.

"How about some of that brandy now, Runa?" Rusty asked.

She grinned. "I knew it."

"Never said we need to become teetotalers. Just didn't want you stumbling drunk getting us killed is all."

"Whatever you say." Runa took out the bottle, took a generous swig before handing it out to Rusty.

"Hroar?" Rusty asked after a pull, proffering the bottle.

The man shook his head, eyes ahead like a watchdog. Like a watchlion?

"Suite yourself."

"Don't drink it all!" said Runa.

Rusty hissed. "Relax, I'm not you. Jesper, you having any?"

"Not sure he's old enough."

"I'm plenty old," the boy hissed. Then muttered, "No thanks."

Runa snatched the bottle before Rusty got it to his lips again.

"Careful, you'll spill!"

"That's what your momma said," Runa replied.

Rusty snorted a laugh.

" _Sssshh_ , you two!"

"Relax, Hroar," Runa said. "Ain't no— _whoa_!"

Runa stepped past Hroar and out the doorway. It opened into a massive hall, high ceiling supported by rows of thick pillars with platforms running between the pillars and lining the walls in two stories. Everything looked old and brittle but at the same time sturdy enough to keep supporting the massive structure for a few more millennia, in spite of all the decay and erosion.

Rusty, walking in, whistled. "This place seems huge! How are we going to find the Nightingale here? If he even _is_ here."

Runa gave Jesper a look, but the gloomy kid evaded her eyes. "He might be," she said with shrug. "He mightn't."

"We better keep our eyes open," said Hroar, wrapping his big hand tightly around the hilt of the sword on his back.

They walked carefully into the hall, rubble cracking underneath their feet. Upon their steps the place echoed with ominous silence. Several doorways like the one they'd entered through lined the walls. The one at the end, the largest one, seemed the most promising, so that's the one Runa headed for. Her men followed without word. Jesper, obviously untried in the art of sneaking, trudged past her as if not fully aware of where he was.

Runa was about to call him out on it, when suddenly something made a clicking sound under his boot. The boy jumped forward, as though having stepped on a snake. The ground there was covered in excavation debris, so Runa, sensing trouble, rushed over in a cowered position to sweet the rubble aside. True enough, the trigger plate hiding there was just returning to its dormant position.

She raised her head in alarm. Then frowned. No darts or swinging axe or anything of the sort. Then she looked down at the plate and frowned deeper. Careful craftmanship, made of brass. Her head swung back up as she picked up a faint but strengthening sound from ahead. Hissing and rumbling.

"No, no, no, no, no," she muttered, shaking her head. "Ain't no way. Ain't no fucking way!"

"What is it?" hissed Hroar.

Runa swept out her blades. "Trouble."

In through that doorway at the end of the hall, then, rolled four brazen orbs.

She gritted her teeth. Dwemer automatons in a Nordic ruin? Now, what the _Oblivion_ was going on here! She glanced at her companions, who looked no less baffled. "Well," she said. "Scratching our heads ain't gonna help a damn thing."

Pushing out of the way the frozen-stiff Jesper, she sprung out to meet the metal abominations. Hroar's reassuring bellow from behind her seemed to give her sprint an extra boost. The frontmost Sphere was just unraveling, and she greeted it with a double-blade swing. It struck the thing's side and spun it around. Runa twirled around, swatted the machine's blade away with one of hers and subsequently jabbed the other hard through its eye-socket. A small explosion and it was done.

Another one came at her right away. Runa ducked out from under the slashing blade with an immediate comeback. She dealt fast and hard blows with both swords, giving no ground for countering. Something so very creepy about how these things didn't even try to parry, possessing no evident need for self-defense. All they ever did was try to attack you.

This one got no chance at that. She kept swatting at it, undoing each of its attempted attacks until landing a couple of decisive blows, one to the "neck" area and another to the head. Steam erupted from the points of impact, and the machine fell to the ground popping and shaking.

Runa stopped to breathe, seeing Hroar just having finished his foe. Rusty was still dancing with his, seeming to be in no hurry to stop.

As Hroar lifted his gaze to meet eyes with grinning Runa, he looked past her with a scowl. "Look ou—!"

She swung around to get one of her yet unsheathed blades in the way of the last remaining Sphere's attack. Seemed the damn thing had lagged behind the others. Was that a sign of some kind of tactics perhaps?

This one did a bit better at finding openings to try its own attacks for Runa to parry, seeming faster in its reflexes. So there were differences among the automatons? Curious, she'd never taken note of that before.

Finally, she dashed past the Sphere, let go of one blade and grabbed ahold of the thing's "neck", jumping onto its back. As the automaton tried to respond to this new situation, for which it clearly possessed no script, Runa rammed the tip of her remaining sword into a crack near the back of its neck. An explosion, and she rolled over to the side as she fell with the broken machine.

No other automatons appeared. It was silent again now that they boys were done with theirs.

Rusty looked down at the one he'd dealt with, then to Runa's three. He snorted. "You just had to show off didn't you?"

She shrugged. "If you two weren't so damn slow, I wouldn't need to."

Hroar looked troubled. "What were these things doing here?" He hated Dwemer things even more than Runa did.

"Beats me," Runa said, trying to hide her disquiet.

"I don't like this place," said Rusty and gave a shiver.

"And I was personally thinking I could move in here."

"Wait." Rusty looked around, frowning. "Where's Jesper?"

Nowhere in sight, as it would seem.

Runa spat. "Well, shit."


End file.
